


Zero Characters Left

by stellarbisexual



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AV Nerd Richie, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Eddie POV, Eddie is anxiety incarnate, Eventual Smut, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Lesbian Beverly Marsh, Like a ton of it, M/M, Profanity, Slow Burn, and Richie is Charmed By It, she gay gay gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-01-17 20:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12373053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/pseuds/stellarbisexual
Summary: Eddie works in social media at a tech start-up in Boston, and Richie's been hired to do some video production for the company.Characters are aged-up to their late twenties, and this takes place in 2017.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love me a good office AU, and I thought Reddie deserved one, so here it is!
> 
> This is super, super AU, though I'll do my best to squeeze fun nods to book/miniseries/2017 canon whenever possible because that's just how I roll. 
> 
> Other members of Lucky Seven will definitely make appearances, but it's not totally mapped out yet.
> 
> Title is temporary and will probably change.

“I’m smart, I’m confident, and I’m totally comfortable on camera.”

Eddie murmurs his own patented mantra that he’d coined especially for today. 

“I’m smart, I’m confident…” He struggles to perfect the line of his necktie in the bathroom mirror. “...and I’m…” _Fuck._ “ _Fuck._ Totally _fucking_ comfortable on camera.” He tears the tie off and starts over. 

One of his colleagues--one of the bros in Sales with whom he’s only on a “hi-bye” basis--emerges from one of the stalls and gives him a look as he rushes to wash his hands, shake them over the sink, and get the hell out of there. 

Eddie couldn’t care less about being judged right now; he’s fucking terrified. He could swear, it’s like he’s twelve again and about to give a big presentation in social studies, in front of all those popular dickheads who’d call him clever names like _sissy_ and _homo_ , names that he’d now, at twenty-eight, gladly tattoo on his forehead. He’s earned those stripes, and he’s proud of them.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still totally petrified of going in front of a camera and talking (without a script!) about his job. He still doesn’t get why they chose him, at all. He just does social media, and he isn’t even the big idea-man in their marketing department; he’s more of a project manager, someone who takes other people’s big ideas and makes sure they’re executed perfectly, with backup plans and backup-backup plans just in case shit hits the fan. He doesn’t consider his job sexy, and he doesn’t think other people do, either. And he’s just not the type to be the company’s mouthpiece, for anything. He’s been there two years, and they’ve never used him for anything like this before. Why now?

The actual room where they’re shooting is far less intimidating: just a single small DSLR camera on a tripod, a couple of lights, and one other person, a tall, lanky, hipster-looking guy with dark eyes and an even darker mop of wild hair that can’t decide if it wants to be wavy or curly. 

The guy turns to him immediately. “Hey, are you Edward Kaspbrak?”

“Yeah, Eddie’s fine,” Eddie exhales heavily, realizing his breathing has already gone a little shallow. “Richie, right?”

“That would be me. Nice to meet you.” Richie removes himself from fixing a gel on one of the lights to shake his hand. “I’m sorry to take you away from your work; this should only be about fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. You can have a seat right there.” Richie points to the only open chair in the conference room. The others are tucked in a corner together and inaccessible or occupied by wires and other equipment. 

Eddie sits in the chair stiffly, hands trying to figure out what the hell to do in his lap. “I don’t know why they picked me to do this,” he blurts. 

Without missing a beat, Richie says, “I have a feeling,” peering at Eddie on the camera’s mini-monitor, “it’s because you’re adorable and they knew you’d look great on camera.”

“Fuck off,” he dismisses, which prompts a surprised snicker from Richie. Eddie’s face scrunches up. “Sorry.”

 _Adorable._ No one’s ever used that word to describe him before, not that he knows of, anyway. It makes him even more flustered.

He slips his hand inside the front pocket of his dress pants, extracting his baby blue inhaler and taking a puff.

“Wowza,” Richie smiles, adjusting the focus on the camera. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid.”

Eddie breathes deeply, savoring the ability to do so. “I rarely have to use it. But I always carry it with me just in case.” 

Richie’s expression goes soft. “You nervous?”

Eddie scoffs--but even he’s not buying it. “ _No._ ”

“Do you mind if I…?” Richie gestures at the inhaler.

Eddie’s always had a thing about sharing, well, anything, especially things his mouth has been on ( _hardy-har-har_ )--it’s actually outright offended some of his previous boyfriends when he’s wiped the rim of coffee mugs or flipped straws around--but he finds himself wordlessly handing over the inhaler to this guy he just met five seconds ago.

Richie narrows his eyes and takes a hit, then sticks his tongue out, making a face. “You’d think they’d have found a way to make cool flavors at this point.”

“It’s medicine; not a fucking bong,” Eddie replies, snatching it back and pocketing it again. He doesn’t know why he’s being such a shit; Richie’s clearly just trying to put him at ease. _Tall fucking order._

Richie just keeps smiling at him, looking totally unscathed and a little charmed, even. “Okay, so here’s how this is going to work. I have some really basic questions I’m going to ask you about the work you do here, and you’re going to answer them. But you’re not going to look at me; you’re going to look right into the camera.” To demonstrate, Richie scoots to the side and points at the lens: a cold, unfeeling black circle with a glass center.

It reminds Eddie of HAL from _2001: A Space Odyssey._

“I know, it’s a little weird at first, but you’ll get used to it, I promise.”

Eddie doesn’t get used to it. He doesn’t even get past his introduction for the first three takes, flubbing his own job title. Richie is patient to a fault, reassuring Eddie that it happens all the time and to just breathe. When Eddie’s finally able to get through “Eddie Kaspbrak, Senior Social Media Manager,” he finds himself unable to keep his eyes on the lens, looking to Richie for validation or maybe just comfort as he answers his first question. 

“Okay, let’s cut for a second.” Richie winks at him. “I know I’m pretty, but try to keep your eyes right here.” He points to the center of the lens again.

That stupid fucking camera lens. Eddie gives it another shot, but his eyes stray again--and on the next take, and the take after that.

“Okay, cut.” 

Eddie exhales, rubbing at his thighs. “I’m sorry, this is so fucking unnatural for me.”

“You mean it’s unnatural talking to a machine like it’s an actual human being?” Richie pulls one of the chairs out from the table and clears it, placing it directly in front of the camera, about a yard from where Eddie’s sitting. “Weird.”

“I’m already eating into your next appointment, aren’t I?” Eddie glances at his watch.

“Who gives a shit?” Richie sits backwards on the chair, leaning his arms over the back. “They’re paying me by the hour; I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Eddie smiles, grateful to have the attention off of him for a moment, grateful that he can’t see the camera anymore. “So you’re a contractor?”

“Yep. I have to say, this is the best fucking gig I’ve ever had. They’re paying me a shit-ton of money to not do very much,” he stage whispers conspiratorially, “and you guys have more candy than Willy Wonka. I already love it here.”

“Well, if it weren’t for the pain in the ass you’re interviewing right now.”

“You’re not a pain in the ass.” Richie thinks for a moment. “What do you like most about working here? Besides the gummy bears.”

Answering--talking--just like this is easy. The words flow freely, and he can tell how captivated Richie is by what he’s saying, dark eyes attentive and mouth smiling when Eddie makes a funny side comment here and there. 

When he’s run out of stuff to say, he finds Richie staring at him with that soft expression again.

“What?”

“That was perfect. I’m going to turn the camera on and stand over there,” he points to a far corner of the room, out of Eddie’s visual field, “and I want you to talk just like that--but looking in the lens. Just pretend it’s me.”

Even though Eddie’s suddenly nauseous once he has to stare at that fucking thing again, it actually works. It’s like he’s had a rehearsal of sorts, and now that he has his guard down, he can just be a person.

When Richie calls cut about ten minutes later, Eddie turns to him. “Was that okay?”

“That was more than okay, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie squeezes his shoulders and shakes him a little. “You killed it!”

Eddie feels proud even as he wrinkles his nose at the stupid nickname.


	2. Chapter 2

His attraction to Richie isn’t something that hits him like a ton of bricks the second they meet eyes for the first time; it’s more like a brick wall that comes together slowly but surely over a number of days, layer by layer. First it’s the way Richie’s collarbones show from under a soft grey sweater, then the way his curls bounce a little when he walks (it helps that his walk is particularly buoyant), then the boyish way he pops a handful of Starburst in the caf, then it’s the way his jeans hang from his hips and the waistband of his boxer briefs peeks out when he reaches up with both hands to adjust a light, and holy _shit_ Eddie can’t believe how fucking gay he is sometimes. (Okay, all the time.) 

Today it’s Richie’s plush, pink mouth, and thank fucking God Eddie doesn’t have a shoot with him today because he’d be too distracted to form words. Richie’s been setting his equipment up in the office across from Eddie since he arrived at 7AM, looking bleary-eyed and a little rumpled but still fucking gorgeous. He’s been unusually quiet, since he’s in there alone with no help, and Eddie finds his eyes straying from his computer screen to zero in on his lips as they purse, blow out air in exasperation, and mutter reactions or adjustments to himself (lips that are chapped, and that really shouldn’t be hot, but it somehow is). Eddie has to literally shift in his chair when Richie’s teeth set into his bottom lip in concentration. 

_So gay._

“Hey, Eds, do you mind if I borrow you for two seconds?” Richie’s poked his head into his office.

_Great question. Do you mind if I explode for all eternity?_

“Y-yeah, sure.”

“I just need you to stand in for Stan,” he explains, leading Eddie to the seat in front of the camera. “You don’t have to do anything but sit there and look pretty.”

Eddie’s heart throbs as he patiently waits for Richie to adjust the camera’s focus and the lights.

Richie peers at him from under his lashes as his arms extend high, high, high to re-clip a falling gel. A sliver of his pale skin shows between his t-shirt and his jeans. “How’s your morning going? You look a little out of it, Spaghetti Man.”

“Huh? Oh. What? Um.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to answer. It’s super fucking early. Are you always here this early?”

“Pretty much.”

Richie sings a riff of _He works hard for the money_ as he readjusts the tripod. He glances at Eddie’s image in the monitor. “Wow.” 

“What?” Eddie already feels himself blushing. 

“Your eyes look really nice with this lighting setup.” He hears Richie take a couple of stills. 

“Thanks,” Eddie mutters, trying to not be seduced by it. He’s known tons of Richies before; hell, most of the guys he liked in high school were just like him--not necessarily physically but certainly in personality. Eddie’d always been drawn to flirts, and he’d always fallen down that rabbit hole of chasing after the dangling carrot of _maybe someday_ , only to realize that he wasn’t special after all and he was just one of the many people these guys flirted with. Richie flirts for sport. It’s obvious. 

Eddie stopped being into guys like him in his mid-twenties, and he’s not about to go back to it. 

“Are you all set?” he asks, already rising from the chair.

“Uh… yeah.” The disappointment in Richie’s voice is clear. “Thanks.”

This time, Eddie closes his office door behind him when he retreats back to his desk. He glances up at the window panel next to his door, at the two rainbow stickers adhered there ( _‘Cause I’m extra gay_ , he’d reasoned with himself). Company employees have the option of putting a sticker on their door or the nameplate on their cubicle. Eddie’s found it a helpful way of identifying both allies and dating prospects. But since Richie’s only a contractor, Eddie can’t figure out whether he may or may not be into guys in this incredibly cowardly, middle school way that is now and has always been his preference.

He turns back to his desktop, ready to plan out the tweets for the week, when there’s a knock on the door. He glances up. Bev. He motions for her to come in.

She manages to enter with grace even though her hands are occupied with two coffees: a caramel macchiato for herself and an Americano for him. “How’s my favorite twink?”

Eddie shoots daggers at her and motions for her to shut the door. She does, hip-checking it closed.

“What’s up with _you_?” She sits in the chair on the other side of his desk and pulls it close.

Eddie leans across the desk, keeping his voice low and trying his best to not move his mouth into shapes that are too obvious, much like a deranged ventriloquist. “Do you know the video guy?”

“What, Richie?” She turns in her chair, glancing at said video guy across the hall.

“ _Don’t look at him!_ ”

Bev throws her head back, swiveling the chair back around. “Okay, oh my God. Unclench.” She eyes him, then gasps. “Do you have a little crush on him? I get it. He’s charming. Fucking ridiculous, but charming.”

“ _Yes. Ridiculous._ Very…” Eddie glances at Richie across the hall, who’s now busy coaching Stan through their session together. He laughs. His laugh is fucking cute. “...ridiculous.”

“ _Aw-www._ ” Bev smiles at him, then chews on her big green Starbucks straw.

He wrinkles his nose at her. “What?”

“I’ve never seen you like this. It’s cute. Why don’t you ask him out?”

“ _No._ I don’t even like him. Stop.” Eddie takes a sip of his coffee: strong and bitter, just like he likes it. “Besides, I don’t even think he likes guys.” 

“Here’s an easy solution: how about I just ask him?”

Eddie can feel himself getting suspiciously close to having a conniption. “Are you fucking serious?! You can’t just _ask_ him that.”

“Need I remind you that I’m in Sales? I’ll put my finesse on it; don’t worry.” She scoops some of the whipped cream with her straw and slips it into her mouth. “I’ll get to the bottom of whether or not Dick likes--”

“OH MY GOD.” 

At that exact moment, his computer pings: a new e-mail. It’s from Richie. There’s no subject or text, just an attachment of his own face looking admittedly photogenic in the lighting setup from Stan’s office.

Eddie glances across the hall at Richie, who’s still "working" in there, hands hovering over the keyboard of his Macbook and looking right back at him. He shoots him a wink and a finger gun. 

Eddie abandons his coffee and buries his face in his hands. It’s going to be a long week.


	3. Chapter 3

The company has a happy hour to celebrate its three-year anniversary, and Eddie begrudgingly goes. He has a few scattered friends at work--Bev, of course, Mike in Recruiting, Ben the Facilities Manager, Bill in Tech Support, Stan (software development) by association--but they all have plenty of other friends. Eddie’s always felt kind of out of his element at these things. Which makes him wonder briefly: where does he ever feel _in_ his element? Hiding behind hashtags, probably. 

He’s a little ashamed at how nervous he feels walking into the big, “cool” bar on the water in the Seaport section of the city, not too far from their offices. He doesn’t spot any of his friends yet, so he approaches the bar to at least get something to occupy his hands, make him look normal. 

The bar area is crowded, but he finds an open space and settles there, poised to wait a long fucking time before one of the two young, bearded bartenders in vests and suspenders bothers to notice him. _Too short and not pretty enough_ , he thinks. He sighs, swiping a hand over his face and into his hair. 

A big, warm hand settles between his shoulder blades. “You look way too stressed out for someone who’s supposed to be at a party.”

Eddie jumps and turns, thoroughly shocked to see Richie standing there right in front of him, in the flesh. They’ve never stood this close to each other, in fact. _Jesus, he’s fucking tall._ He’d never realized just how tall before. Eddie’s standing on the little platform that hugs the perimeter of the bar, and even with that advantage, Richie towers over him. 

He looks a little more dressed than he does at work, in that soft grey sweater again but this time with dark fitted jeans, a belt, and boots instead of his usual denims that are ripped to shit and scuffed up sneakers. He’s wearing glasses, too, thick, purple frames. His hair even looks neater, like there’s product in it, his curls darker and more defined. Eddie wouldn’t have even thought Richie _owned_ product. Then again, hipster is as hipster does. At least he’s clean-shaven. 

“Have I rendered you speechless? I clean up nice, don’t I?” Richie straightens, making himself even fucking taller, and smooths a hand down the front of his sweater. He steps up onto the platform and squeezes next to Eddie, so close that their hips are practically flush. “Can I buy you a drink, Eds?”

“It’s an open bar, genius,” Eddie says, biting back a smile as he turns back toward the bar, his cheeks already heating up. 

Eddie’s M.O. has often been to be a total dick to the guys he has crushes on (this method hasn’t worked out very well for him, historically), but he’s never been as intense about it as he is with Richie. Now that he’s actually voiced his attraction to both Bev and himself, it’s no holds barred. He’s _obligated_ to pull Richie’s pigtails. 

“Well then, can I buy you multiple drinks?” And then Richie fucking winks at him. 

“Is this your master plan? Corner me at a company outing so you don’t have to actually pay? I’m swooning.” Eddie leans over the bar, hoping in vain that it’ll help him catch the eye of one of the bartenders. 

“Hey, don’t beat up on the freelancer.” Richie raises his hands in defense. “We don’t all get free gummy bears all the time.”

Eddie huffs and throws his hands up in annoyance, ready to give up on getting a goddamn drink. 

“Need a little help?” Richie offers, and before Eddie can protest, he brings two of his fingers to his mouth and does one of those epic old-school whistles like in some movie from the 40s. Both bartenders--and half the company--turn to look at him. “Yo, can we get some service over here?! Five-foot-three of sexy needs a beverage.” He gestures pointedly at Eddie.

“I’m five-five!” Eddie protests, which he realizes sounds horribly feeble (and isn’t even totally true; he’s more like five-four and a half), and ignores the _sexy_ remark. Richie’s so full of shit.

“In heels, maybe.” Richie closes his eyes briefly, a dreamy expression on his face. “Oof, what an image.” 

They quickly put in their drink order before they lose the bartender’s attention once again. 

“Speaking of which, I just realized something.”

Eddie accepts his Moscow Mule with a curt nod, turning on his heels so he can lean back against the bar. “That you’re not an actual employee here and you should go home?”

“No.” Richie cuts his eyes at him as he takes his first sip of what Eddie can only assume is a top shelf scotch he otherwise couldn’t afford. “What I was going to say is that I just realized: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in civvies before. What’s up with that?”

“Civvies?”

Richie gestures grandly at Eddie’s ensemble, his usual dress shirt, tie, and trousers.

“Oh.” Eddie blushes a little. “I used to work at a big law firm with a pretty strict dress code before this. Old habits die hard, I guess. Plus, otherwise I’d have a closet full of suits I never wear.”

“You could donate them. I’m sure there’s another grown man with your adorable proportions somewhere in this fair Bean.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, even as he’s impressed with Richie’s suggestion. “How do you manage to find clothing that fits _you_? You look like a swizzle stick.”

Richie simply gives him a playful smile. “Thanks for noticing. Anyway. I was really hoping to catch you in a pair of jeans tonight. Something on the tighter side, preferably.” 

“Keep dreaming, dick.”

“Will do, Señor Spaghetti.” He nudges Eddie with one of his big, bony elbows. 

To Eddie’s relief--and disappointment--Richie hops off the platform and disappears into the crowd. He isn’t alone for three whole seconds before Bev saunters up and wraps an arm around his neck, her skin already a little glowy from alcohol. 

“I have an update,” she says. “Richie definitely likes dudes. And he thinks you’re cute. He said you were, quote, a ‘feisty little snack.’ Unquote.” Then she squeals in his ear. 

Eddie wishes the platform were higher so he could jump to his death.


	4. Chapter 4

After not seeing Richie for nearly two weeks, Eddie’s thankfully settled back into a work groove. He knows Richie’s assignment hasn’t quite wrapped up yet, so he figures he’d gotten bored with Eddie and moved on to the next poor, unsuspecting soul, confirming Eddie’s suspicions that he's just been flirting with him to avoid boredom.

Eddie takes a pause to roll his shoulders and crack his neck. He’s plowing through customer DM’s on Twitter, an abhorred activity for everyone and not something a person of his title should even really be doing, except he _is_ the one who’s best at it. So, sometimes he just sucks it up and takes one for the team. So to speak.

He sinks back into reply mode, muttering his own words under his breath as he types them out. “...Terribly sorry your software is acting up… do… you… mind… taking… a… screenshot…” 

There’s a timid knock at his door. He finishes his sentence before tearing his eyes away from the screen. He blinks. Richie.

“Hey, Eds--sorry to bug you. I just had a quick question.”

Eddie’s heart gives an embarrassing start. He’d forgotten how fucking attractive Richie is. “Shoot,” he says quietly.

“Where do you guys keep band-aids in this place?” He wiggles two injured fingers.

“They’re in the--.” Eddie’s brow furrows. “Uh, that looks bad. Let me come help you.”

His own hands fly across the keyboard, finishing up his latest message before he rises from his chair and scoots around the desk, escorting Richie down the hall and to the main supply closet-slash-copy room. His floor is kind of a maze. 

“What happened?” Eddie gently takes Richie’s hand to look at it more closely. Richie stumbles a little, his face softening. He’s clearly enjoying the attention and care.

“Oh, just burnt myself on one of the lights, and uh, sliced my finger open.” Richie pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his healthy hand. “Occupational hazard, Eds. No biggie.”

Eddie tugs a tissue out from the pocket of his trousers and wraps it around the finger that’s bleeding, jogging ahead to push the copy room door open, holding it for Richie.

“So chivalrous,” Richie says, bowing playfully to him as he lopes into the room. Eddie closes the door behind them with a sigh. “If I’d known you were going to be so sweet to me, I’d have made it a point to slice my finger open the day I got here.”

“Oh my God, sit down.” Eddie pulls a step stool out from where the supply shelves extend all the way up to the ceiling. Richie obeys, holding his wrapped finger awkwardly, his face now at Eddie’s shoulder level, his long legs bent and splayed wide. Eddie quietly unravels the now bloodied tissue from Richie’s finger and starts cleaning the cut. “You’re definitely not going to need stitches. And the burn only looks minor, which is good.”

Richie’s smile is slow and soft. “How do you know all this?’

“My mom was… extremely overprotective growing up. I spent more time in hospitals and with doctors than I probably should have.”

Richie actually looks sympathetic. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

Eddie shrugs, cleaning the edges of Richie’s fingernail carefully. “I have a good therapist. We all have our stuff, right?” 

“Sure do,” Richie exhales, but he doesn’t elaborate. 

Eddie finds himself wondering what Richie’s stuff is. He can probably guess. He realizes a little too late just how much he’s let down his guard, hardening his own expression and trying to backtrack. “So how often do you manage to do this to yourself, Spielberg?”

Richie’s face scrunches up in thought. “Maybe once, twice a week.”

Eddie picks up Richie’s other hand and laughs a little at how obviously dinged up it is, littered with old, healed scars and wounds. “Jesus _Christ_. How do you have any fingerprints left?”

Richie simply smiles and raises his eyebrows a little. Eddie realizes with a jolt that he’s essentially holding both of Richie’s hands. He drops the unscathed one like he’s the one who’s been burned. 

“So what’s the prognosis, Dr. K?” Richie starts talking weird. “These two fingers play an important role in the boudoir. Will they make it?”

Eddie laughs despite himself, bandaging the cut so he can get started on Richie’s burn. “Okay, what the fuck is that?”

“British accent.” Richie sounds affronted. “No good?”

“You’re a disaster. I bet you were one of those kids who couldn’t walk down the street without breaking something.”

Richie simply gives him a big, toothy grin. “But I was so adorable, I got away with it every time.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Right.” 

“Holy shit,” Richie starts quietly. He stage whispers his revelation: “I bet you were the cutest kid in the entire fucking world. Those big Bambi eyes, those freckles. I’m destroyed just thinking about it.”

Eddie bites back a smile. “I have a picture in my phone.” Richie looks at him quizzically. “We did a thing on the marketing team a while back where people brought in pictures of themselves as kids and everyone had to guess who was who.”

He tosses the bandage wrappers and cotton pads into the trash bin, then fishes his phone out of his back pocket. He pulls up the photo of him at seven, in overalls and an oversized red sweatshirt, chewing on the tip of his index finger and looking innocently up at his mom, who’s just to the right of the camera. He hesitates before handing it over to a comically impatient Richie.

Richie looks at the screen and slaps a hand over his heart. “Oh my God. Your face is pretty much exactly the same.”

“I know, it’s embarrassing,” Eddie laughs a little.

“No, it’s sweet.” Richie stares at the photo for way too long, the look of pure fondness on his face too much for Eddie’s brain to even process.

Instead of handing the phone back, he starts swiping, clearly checking out some of Eddie’s other photos. As much as Eddie’s not worried (there’s nothing remotely incriminating in there), he is annoyed. “Come on.” He moves to grab the phone back, but Richie keeps him at bay, standing up so he’s unreachable. “Come _on_ , dick.”

“That’s my name; don’t wear it out.” Richie tilts his head back as he extends the phone up high above his head, _way_ out of Eddie’s reach now. “Wow, I was hoping for at least one nudie pic, but no dice. Or no balls, I should say.” Eddie gives him a vicious, twisting pinch at his side, surprising even himself. Richie bows a bit. “ _Oww, fuck!_ You little demon.” But he doesn’t relent. At least Eddie can see what he’s looking at, though. He scrolls. “Boston Common. Lobster. Lighthouse. What are you, a fucking tourist? It’s like these came with the phone or something.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, embarrassed, feeling suddenly boring and prudish.

Richie stops on a photo of Eddie and Bev at brunch in Newburyport, just a weekend day trip they took a couple of weeks ago, Bev looking maniacally excited about her pancakes. He finally brings the phone back down to Eddie’s level. “You and Marsh are pretty tight, huh?”

_Here it comes._

“Why? Are you looking to get in her pants?” Eddie pulls an icepack out of the medical supply mini-fridge, handing it roughly to Richie and grabbing his phone back, pocketing it again. “Most guys are.”

“No,” Richie shakes his head. “She’s gorgeous and hilarious, but no.” He suddenly looks perplexed. “...Are you?”

“Not my type, Rich,” Eddie answers quietly. “I thought you knew that by now.”

Richie watches him with an appreciative glint in his eye. “Just triple-checking.”

Eddie searches for ointment in the first aid kit. “Anyway, neither of us is Bev’s type.”

“Big ol’ lez?”

“That’s right.” Eddie shoots him a grin. He snips off a stretch from the roll of gauze and bites off a couple of strips of tape, nodding for Richie to sit down again. 

“Good for her. Men are a royal pain in the ass. They don’t know how to pick up on signals at all.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows meaningfully at him. “Oh, like when they’re clearly annoying the shit out of you but still refuse to leave you alone?”

Richie gives a sweet sigh. “Yup.” 

Eddie picks up Richie’s now cold, burned finger and gives it a swipe of hydrogen peroxide before dabbing at it with the ointment. A silence stretches between them, the first since they got into this tiny space together. Eddie feels Richie’s eyes on him, examining his face. He lifts his eyes, finding his suspicions thoroughly confirmed. 

He bites his lip and continues working at the burn. “Stop staring at me.”

“Where else am I supposed to look, Doc?” Richie murmurs. “Besides: the view’s real nice.”

Eddie smiles shyly. “Yeah, yeah.”

Richie continues staring at him. Eddie can tell from his breathing (or lack of it) that he’s dying to say something, like he’s about to burst from it. Finally: “So, are you dating anyone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Eddie sighs, his smile fading. He hates this question. He hates this conversation. He hates Richie. He gently begins wrapping his finger. 

Richie continues, as if trying to figure out a particularly challenging puzzle. “I feel like it has to have something to do with you not being able to take a compliment. I’m gonna keep trying, though. To compliment you.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Well, it sounds way better than ‘I’m gonna keep hitting on you shamelessly.’” Richie leans in, staring even harder at him, if that were possible. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

Eddie finishes wrapping Richie’s finger and holds it between his hands. “Why am I not dating anyone…” He looks pointedly into his eyes, which are no more than maybe a foot from his own. “Because if it doesn’t really mean something, then what’s the point?” He drops Richie’s hand and tosses the rest of the detritus of their session into the bin. “You’re all good, Tozier.”

Richie looks at him thoughtfully for a moment before he slides off the stool and unravels, towering above Eddie again. “Thanks for patching me up, Dr. K.” He cups Eddie’s cheek and presses a soft kiss to the opposite one. 

_Chapped lips_ , Eddie thinks, freezing. 

“See ya around.” Richie slips out the door too quickly for Eddie to respond. 

He stands there, holding his cheek in shock at the sweet gesture. _What did you expect, for him to offer you a handjob in the supply closet?_

 _Great_ , Eddie thinks, _now I want a handjob in the supply closet._

He spazzes in the tiny room. There’s no way he’s getting anything done the rest of the day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At company Field Day, the Shorts™ make an appearance, and Richie loses his shit.

Eddie can’t believe he didn’t call in sick today. He’s managed to find an excuse every year since he started to miss out on the company’s annual Field Day (it reminds him way too fucking much of dreading and suffering through P.E. growing up). But this year, no such luck. In their last one-on-one meeting, his boss had made it a point to mention that while he’s a terrific employee--always reliable with naturally solid managerial skills--she’s been disappointed that Eddie hasn’t really taken to the company’s cultural offerings. Eddie’d wanted to protest (he went to the fucking happy hour!), except he knew his boss was 100% correct. All the activities and in-office beer and wine hadn’t been a major draw for him when he’d taken the job; he’d be perfectly happy to just clock in, do his thing, and clock out. 

_Now that you’re managing three people and an intern, I really would like to see you getting more involved and setting an example on that front_ , his boss had said.

Eddie’s pretty sure that him wearing short-shorts and sucking desperately on his inhaler in the Back Bay Fens isn’t what she’d had in mind. He’d somehow been recruited for a basketball game, which required said shorts as part of his team’s uniform, and the only pair left in the bin that hadn’t been falling off of him had been a Women’s extra small--and they are that, both extra and small (Bev’s words, after she’d laughed at him for about ten minutes straight). 

_Fuck._

Eddie somehow manages to shut his brain off and have fun during the actual game, since he’s definitely not the only one way out of his element here, not by a long shot. Half of the people playing forget who’s on which team and sink baskets on behalf of their opponents, and the other half get horribly out of breath within ten minutes of playing and vow to start going to the company gym at least three times a week. 

By the time the first “half” is over (as if anyone’s really keeping score or following the rules of the game to begin with), Eddie is pleasantly sweaty and full of smiles. Mike, who’s been put on the opposing team, ruffles his damp hair and hands him a bottle of water before taking a breather himself. 

“Sooooo… can we talk about those shorts?” Mike teases, looking him up and down and raising an eyebrow. 

Eddie hears Bev let out a loud cackle from the gatorade station all the way across the court.

Eddie flushes, throwing his hands up. He snaps a hand towel playfully at Mike. “They were the only ones that fit!”

“... _Do_ they fit, though?”

Eddie snaps the towel again, this time landing a smack on Mike’s thigh. Mike retaliates by pouring half of his water over Eddie’s head. Eddie splutters, shaking his hair out. 

“Oh _wow_. This is so much better than civvies.”

Eddie turns around to find Richie staring at the aforementioned shorts with a stunned expression. 

Richie visibly swallows. “They’re practically briefs.”

Eddie blushes, though he feels suddenly, strangely confident. In all of their interactions over the past few weeks, this is the first time Eddie has seen Richie truly thrown off his game. “Fuck off, Tozier,” he says, with a flirtatious smirk and zero bite, wiping a combination of sweat and Mike’s water out of his eyes. 

“You look a little overheated, Rich.” Mike sounds utterly amused as he hands him a cold bottle of water. “Deep breaths.”

Richie accepts it wordlessly and finally manages to tear his eyes away. “Mikey, you’re in HR: could wearing those be considered sexual harassment? I mean, I’m uncomfortable. I could report him, right?”

“I’m going to decline to comment and gracefully remove myself from this conversation.” Mike stands, snapping Eddie back with his own towel before lightly jogging over to Bev and Ben on the other side of the court. Eddie giggles quietly, running a hand through his hair.

The second Mike’s gone, Richie steps closer. “So are you two into each other or something?” He tries and fails to sound casual about it.

Eddie bites his lip through a smile, squinting in the bright summer sun. “I’m pretty sure Mike has a girlfriend.”

Richie scoffs. “That doesn’t mean shit.” He lowers his voice. “You’re obviously a gateway gay.”

“I’m sorry: ‘gateway gay’?”

“ _Yes._ You’re that one guy that’s every straight guy’s exception. Gateway gay.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I can assure you that’s not true.” It’s not; Eddie’s adolescence was riddled with unrequited crushes on straight boys.

“I can assure you it is,” Richie says with total confidence. “I mean,” he inhales, “Jesus, have you seen yourself? Half the guys on the court right now are busy trying to figure out why they can’t stop staring at your ass.”

Eddie crosses his arms, knowing any attempts to cover himself up where it matters will be futile. In a split second, he’s shifted from playful confidence to total self-consciousness. 

Richie’s eyes widen. “ _Shit._ I’m sorry. Did I overstep?”

“Always.” Eddie looks at Richie’s shoes. He likes the attention from Richie; he’s not sure he likes the idea of other guys looking at him like that--and all at the same time _and_ at what’s technically a work function, no less. He tries in vain to pull the shorts out of his ass. “You don’t even work here full-time. Why are you everywhere?”

“You should know by now that I can’t stay away. Plus,” Richie smiles, making a show out of pulling an ID card from his pocket, “I got bumped up to FTE status yesterday. Boom.” Richie’s giving two thumbs up in the photograph, as though he posed for it anticipating this very moment. 

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to swallow. “Does this mean you’re on the marketing team? As in, my team?”

Richie takes a sip of water and smacks his lips with satisfaction. “That’s right, babydoll.”

“Holy shit. I mean, congratulations.” Any plans Eddie’d had of continuing to avoid his feelings for Richie have officially been thrown unceremoniously out the window. “Does that mean you’re going to stop being a ridiculous human being and just treat me like a colleague from now on?” Eddie isn’t sure what he hopes the answer to that question will be.

“Absolutely not. I mean, how else do you expect me to help you realize that you’re desperately in love with me?” Richie steps even closer, forcing Eddie to tilt his head back to look up at him. “Besides, the banter is _your_ fault. You’re so fucking cute, it makes me kind of angry. Brings out the middle schooler in me. My body is changing, and I have all these feelings.”

Eddie looks down at his stupid shorts and thinks Richie couldn’t be more correct. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he growls in mock-exasperation as the whistle for the second half blows. 

“Go, Eds!” Richie claps after him as he jogs back out onto the court. “I believe in you! Home run!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Head of Marketing surprises the team with some news at Richie's first weekly meeting.

Eddie finds himself on high alert as he makes his way into the office the following Monday, shuffling quickly through the circuitous hallways with his head down and his eyes peeled for any sign of the curly-mopped, amazonian video menace. He’s made it a point to come in extra early, too, so he can mentally prepare himself for the weekly team meeting, which promises to be interesting after Richie essentially made a solemn oath at Field Day to not leave him the fuck alone from now on. 

As is custom, Eddie’s the one representing social media, so he’ll be giving a weekly update on all the current campaigns and upcoming projects they have going on--and their metrics, which are, thankfully, looking pretty decent right now. He’d spent a little extra time choosing his shirt and tie today, too, wanting to look and feel as confident as possible. 

He’s the first to arrive in the room by a good ten minutes, which he realizes is a power move borne out of serious anxiety (he’s not ashamed), and thank God for his own foresight because Richie’s the second to arrive, just a few minutes later. 

Eddie gives him a once-over, noticing with a rush of heat how beautifully tall and lean he looks in fitted black pants and a plum button-down, tucked in, thumb already punching away at the touch screen of a company phone. 

Richie raises his dark eyes with a smile. “Hello, fellow work colleague,” he drawls before plopping down into the seat directly across from him, setting the phone facedown on the table, and resting his chin on the heel of his hand.

“You certainly look the part,” Eddie replies, pretending to be occupied with his notes, which he already has memorized to a tee, instead of drinking in how gorgeously the color of Richie’s shirt contrasts with his pale, pale skin, dark, dark hair, and pink, pink lips. _Get. A. Fucking. Grip. Kaspbrak._

“I may have done a little shopping this weekend. Do you approve?” Richie uses his impressive length to lean more than halfway across the table, ducking his head so he can better meet Eddie’s gaze. 

_If by “approve” you mean that I want to drag you back into that supply closet and maul you, then: yeah, sure, I wholeheartedly fucking approve._

“You look very nice, Richie,” Eddie admits through an exhale, then finally glances up to find Richie beaming across from him.

“Then I have no regrets. Money well spent!” he declares, smacking a hand against the table. “You look especially shiny today, too, you know. Got a hot date tonight?”

Eddie gives him a playful glare as he sips at his (very needed) coffee. “Not that I know of.”

“That is just tragic, Spaghetti Man. That’s a waste of a lotta pretty.”

Eddie’s about to say, _Alright, take it easy, shithead, we’re at_ work _for God’s sake_ , when the rest of his team members start flooding into the room. He makes small talk with a couple of friends, then glances across the table at Richie again to find him looking attentive and actually kind of nervous. Eddie pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick e-mail to rtozier, assuming that’s his permanent company address: _Happy official first day. You’re going to do great._

Richie’s phone buzzes. He picks it up, eyes scanning the message as he turns it to silent for the meeting. He smiles, looks at Eddie, and mouths a sweet _Thanks_ before everyone turns their attention to the Head of Marketing seated, appropriately, at the head of the conference table. 

“Happy Monday, everybody. Before jumping in, I wanted to take a quick minute to welcome and congratulate Richie Tozier, who officially starts as a permanent, full-time employee today.”

There’s applause and tiny woops around the room, which Eddie politely and professionally joins. 

“Richie’s been the creative force behind many of the best social videos at tech start-ups in the Boston area, two of which went viral--like, actually viral, by the most up-to-date definition of the word.”

Richie gives a playful, bashful salute, and the group giggles. 

Eddie’s heart pounds wildly. He hadn’t done his homework (read: stalking) on Richie as a means of not feeding his crush and letting it spin out of control, so anything and everything about his background is news to him. There is nothing--nothing--more attractive to Eddie than someone who is really fucking good at what they do. As if having two viral videos weren’t enough, Eddie’s boss continues. 

“When he’s not doing marketing, Richie is an accomplished filmmaker. His most recent documentary short was featured at the South by Southwest film festival.”

An impressed sound ripples across the table. Eddie’s throat goes dry. _You’re such an achievement whore_ , Bev had teased him last year when he’d developed a small crush on one of the recruiters who’d run the Boston and New York City marathons _and_ done the Tough Mudder in the same year (though Eddie’d insisted it had been just as much about his muscular legs, which he’d had the privilege of seeing in his running shorts every morning). Yes, he has a thing for ambition. And he’d already had a thing for Richie without knowing he was ambitious, too, so it’s safe to say he’s completed fucked now. 

“In fact,” his boss continues, “he’s survived as a freelancer since graduating from BU in 2009, and we are proud to be the first to have wooed him into a full-time role. We are thrilled to have you, Richie.” 

“Stoked to be here,” Richie says, blushing a little. Eddie can see his legs jiggling under the table from where he’s sitting. 

“I know we haven’t discussed this,” she glances at Richie, then at Eddie, making the both of their brows furrow, “and it’s a little unorthodox to announce this in this way, but we’re a pretty unorthodox company, so what the hell.” She addresses the group at large again. “While Richie is going to be working on video projects across the marketing team, his focus is mainly going to be on social, so he will technically be reporting directly to Eddie with a dotted line to Cara,” she indicates the Senior VP of Marketing. 

Eddie looks at Richie, his new direct fucking report, whose eyes are bugged out of his head almost as much as his own.

She moves on to other topics, and for Eddie her voice takes on the cadence of the teacher from all those Charlie Brown holiday specials ( _whomp whomp whomp_ ), his brain buzzing a mile a minute. Across the table, Richie is discreetly punching a message into his phone, his complexion even paler than usual. 

Eddie’s phone vibrates in his pocket. An e-mail from rtozier: _Did you know about this?_ Eddie replies: _No idea!_

It takes him all of two minutes of processing to get right on board with it, though: Eddie is technically Richie’s boss now. This means structure, parameters, boundaries. They have clear roles in their professional relationship now, which Eddie considers a true fucking blessing. It means Eddie doesn’t have to be a dick to him anymore; hell, he’s _obligated_ to _not_ be now that he’s Richie’s manager. And Eddie is nothing if not a great fucking manager. He’s read all the Harvard Business Review books and everything. He may not know how to be Richie’s colleague, how to handle his flirting or his general inappropriate ridiculousness or his stupid (gorgeous) fucking hair, but he sure as hell knows how to be his boss. And more importantly, Richie probably knows how to behave himself and be his direct report. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

A sadistic part of him also recognizes that this new reporting relationship gives him the upper hand. He watches with some small joy as Richie quietly squirms through the rest of the meeting. When everyone’s dismissed, Eddie leans across the table with a smile. “Hey: we should set up a weekly one-on-one meeting.”

Richie looks totally taken aback. 

_That’s right_ , Eddie realizes. _He’s never been in an office full-time, so he’s not used to any of this._

“S-sure,” Richie replies.

“‘Kay. I’ll send you a calendar invite. This afternoon okay? I’m wide open.”

Richie has his deer-in-the-headlights expression perfected. “...Okay.”

Eddie rises, finishing his now lukewarm coffee and tossing it into the recycling bin. “See you then, Richie.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie have their first one-on-one meeting, and Beverly's little gay heart can't take it.

When Eddie gets back to his office, he finds Bev sitting behind his desk with her feet up. She smiles politely and waits for him to close the door behind him before proceeding to freak the fuck out. 

“Dude.” She throws her head and both her arms across the desk dramatically. “Duuuuuuuuude.” 

Clearly she’s already seen the e-mail announcement. 

“I know,” Eddie says plainly, rounding the desk to shove at her shoulder. “I love you, but get out of my chair.”

She doesn’t, so Eddie simply squeezes into it right next to her, already opening up a calendar invite in Outlook. Bev raises her head and watches him create a recurring appointment titled “Richie/Eddie 1:1” with a look of abject gay horror. “ _Dude._ This is a hot mess of epic proportions.”

“Bevvie, it’s not that serious,” he says calmly, borrowing one of her overused phrases. 

She lowers her voice, clearly a little paranoid. She’d once regaled Eddie with her theories about the exact extent of their company’s employee surveillance tactics, none of which Eddie bought--but he’s still not taking any chances, either. “You and your direct report wanting to fuck each other isn’t that serious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “There is an attraction there, yes. And thank God this happened before it could develop into anything more substantive.” Eddie shoots off the invite, and it flies off into the ether with an electronic _whoosh._

“ _Substantive?_ ” She narrows her eyes and leans in, watching his face closely. “I see you pulling out those GRE study guide words. This is what you do when you’re trying to convince yourself of something that’s total bullshit.”

“I’m not trying to convince myself of anything. I am Richie’s boss now, and our relationship is strictly professional. I’m excited to have him on the team. He’s really smart and good at what he does.” He presses a kiss to her cheek. “Again, I love you, but get the fuck out. I have shit to do,” he says affectionately. 

After a long beat, Bev smacks a hand over her mouth. “You’re actually happy about this.”

“I just said I am.”

“Yeah, but not for the reasons you just said.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer--and he really doesn’t want to hear his best friend say it out loud. 

But she does. “It’s like a twisted work version of self-sabotage. You were too scared to actually get involved with Richie, and now that he’s your direct report, you have a ready-made excuse not to.”

“I’m not--,” Eddie starts, then stops and immediately gives up. Bev knows him too well, knows his history and all his hangups. She isn’t going to buy it. “Richie was never interested in anything serious, anyway. You know that. He was just batting me around like a big, stupid hipster cat with an adorable, defenseless mouse. He’s probably already drawing up the blueprints for whoever his next victim in this office is going to be.” Deep down, Eddie feels a little hurt at that idea. 

Bev purses her lips, exhaling heavily through her nostrils. She’s clearly frustrated and wants to argue, but she doesn’t. “Fine.” She presses a kiss to his cheek. “I will pretend to buy your bullshit for however long it takes for you to have your ‘Come to Jesus’ moment. Or your ‘Come to Richie’ moment. And I will say nothing more. Because I love and support you.”

Eddie turns to her, a mixture of gratitude and relief in his eyes. “Thank you.”

She leans in, talking out of the side of her mouth. “But keep me posted if you end up having hot office sex.”

“ _Bev._ ”

She dodges his dirty look and scoots around the desk. “That’s the dream!” she shouts before easing the door open and putting her professional face back on, heading off in the direction of her cubicle. 

 

Because this afternoon is his and Richie’s first ever one-on-one, Eddie extends it to two hours instead of the typical thirty minutes. 

Richie shows up early, again, and already looking fairly overwhelmed. His smile is restrained. “Hi.”

“Hey, come in.” Eddie smiles, rolling his chair out from behind the desk so it can join the visitor’s chair on the other side. 

“Oh, you don’t have to--” Richie waves a long arm at Eddie accommodating him.

“No, I do. I never sit behind the desk for my one-on-ones. Unless I’m trying to scare someone on purpose,” Eddie jokes. 

Richie smiles, a genuine one this time, and sits. 

Eddie reaches toward the door, using his fingertips to push at it, waiting until it snaps shut to turn back to Richie. He sits. “So. Let’s not sit here and pretend that what happened this morning _wasn’t_ crazy.”

Richie laughs, totally unable to hide his relief. “Yes, please, let’s not.”

“I know we’ve had some questionable interactions…” Richie ducks his head and blushes. “...But let’s just create a clean slate and strike them from the record.” Richie nods, his face betraying no particular reaction to that. “Also: I know that we technically have a reporting relationship, but I consider us partners in this. I know jack shit about video.” Richie laughs, already looking far more relaxed. “I’m just a word guy. You’re the expert here, so I’m going to be leaning on you a lot for ideas and guidance.”

“That’s assuming I know what the hell I’m talking about,” Richie shoots back. 

“Richie.” It comes out sounding way more serious than he intends, and Richie looks appropriately stunned. Eddie smiles kindly. “You’re really good at what you do. I know that just from you walking me through not being a total embarrassment on camera. And they wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. Six-hundred people applied for your position. They don’t mess around.”

He watches as Richie’s bashfulness shifts gently into pride. “Thank you.” Richie clears his throat, sitting up taller in the desk chair. “Um. If we’re doing a clean slate, I want it to be _really_ fucking clean.” He lets out a tiny groan. “Sorry.”

Eddie giggles. “You _can_ curse in front of me. I believe I just used the phrase _jack shit_. Please don’t censor yourself.”

“Well, I do need _some_ censorship. I’m kind of mortified at pretty much everything I’ve ever said to you, now that you’re my boss.”

“Of course.” (It’ll be kind of hard for Eddie to forget Richie calling him a ‘snack.’) “The slate is officially clean.” Eddie makes a broad gesture with his hand, as if wiping an actual slate clean, and then extends that same hand to Richie. “I’m Eddie.”

Richie envelops Eddie’s hand in his own, and they look at each other, the air between them shifting. “Richie Tozier, filmmaker extraordinaire.” 

Eddie releases his hand with a sigh. “Great. Wanna talk through some of these campaigns we’ve got coming down the pike?”

“Let’s do it.”

As they start getting into it, Eddie can’t help but feel the loss of Richie’s flirting--but it’s a small price to pay to see firsthand just how fucking smart and creative Richie is. He opens up right before Eddie’s eyes, crackling with energy, passion, insight, and, as ever, ridiculous humor. It’s already apparent that he’s a dream of a team member, someone Eddie can just trust wholeheartedly, step back, and let fly. They bounce off of each other really well, too, coming away with literally dozens of new ideas and thorough plans for the campaigns Marketing already has in progress. The ideas come faster than they can keep up with, Eddie literally squealing when Richie voices one before he can push it out of his own brain. 

Richie turns to him, eyebrows raised in amusement. He lays a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “You okay there, Boss?”

“I’m sorry.” Eddie’s hands flail in front of his face. “I get unprofessional when I’m excited.”

Richie bites his lip, looking like he has something he needs to say.

Eddie looks up at him with wide eyes. “What? What is it?”

Richie shakes his head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid the censors had to take that one.”

“...Oh.” Eddie turns back to the whiteboard and finishes writing out a final thought in what little empty space is left over. He smiles and nudges Richie’s shoulder with his own. “Oh well.”


	8. Chapter 8

Eddie and Richie move through their first month or so with symbiotic professionalism.  They both fall into their roles fairly easily, and Eddie is able to keep his attraction to Richie in check, at least on the surface.  His job does depend on it, after all. 

But sometimes during their one-on-one meetings, when Eddie’s getting swept up in another idea or explaining something the team did last year that they were totally fucking sure would work but then totally fucking didn’t, he’ll notice Richie just  _ looking _ at him.  His eyes’ll go soft and a smile will play at the corners of his mouth, his little  _ uh huh _ ’s sounding slightly distracted.  It’s subtle, and if anyone else were in the room, they’d probably be none the wiser, but Eddie notices the transformation in his face, and it’s a sharp reminder that not only does Richie still consider him in that way--but that consideration might go beyond,  _ Sometimes I consider throwing all your shit off your desk so we can make out on top of it. _

Still, Eddie doesn’t allow himself to linger on those observations long enough to let them take root in his horribly sex-deprived brain.  Instead, he focuses on being the model boss.  Sometimes, he’ll drop in while Richie’s shooting something in the office, just to offer support and ask why Richie made one decision over another.  Richie’s happy to answer every question, even giving Eddie a mini lighting tutorial one day when he’s running ahead of schedule.

To be fair, neither of them really has time to entertain much beyond what’s right in front of them.  Shit moves fast in their office and the company is growing even faster.  Richie’s still getting his feet underneath him (“Getting onboarded here is like drinking from a firehose,” Stan had told Eddie when he’d first started), and Eddie has his hands in about seven different big projects, one of which is managing his direct reports without fucking up too badly.

Richie, who turns out to be way more observant than Eddie would have ever given him credit for, notices he’s overworked right away.  He comes into his office late on a Friday afternoon, wrapped in a coat and scarf, cheeks flushed.  They’re only halfway into October and it already feels like fucking December.

“Hi, Boss Man,” Richie says with a breathless smile.

Eddie finishes typing out an e-mail and looks up, pushing back from his computer.  “Hey, Rich.  Come on in.”

Richie saunters in and stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, giving Eddie a pointed once-over.  “You getting out of here soon?  It’s like a Wile E. Coyote cartoon out there,” he nods toward the hallway, the other offices.  “And by that, I mean I think I saw an actual tumbleweed.”

Eddie gives a heavy sigh and runs a hand roughly through the hair at the back of his head.  He desperately needs a haircut but literally hasn’t had time to run out of the office in the middle of the day to get it done.  

“I was gonna come show you the latest cut of the anniversary thing, but you look totally wound up and it can wait.”

“No,  _ no _ , please, I’d love to see it.”

“It can wait until Monday,” Richie insists.  “But.”  He walks around Eddie’s desk, joining him on the other side.  With Eddie seated, he towers over him.  It’s unnerving.  He gestures at the keyboard.  “May I?”

Eddie swallows.  “Sure.”  He should get out of the chair and get out of Richie’s way, but he finds he doesn’t want to, at all.  He finds he wants Richie to get  _ all up _ in his space.  

Bev’s text from earlier in the week flashes across his brain in screaming rainbow colors:  _ YOU NEED TO GET LAID, YESTERDAY. _

Richie has to fold himself over in order to type on Eddie’s keyboard (he’d had the entire desk setup tweaked to account for his height, at the recommendation of some office ergonomics article he’d read online), and his posture pitches his voice lower than Eddie’s emotionally prepared for.  “I have something that’ll help,” he says, searching YouTube for a video called,  _ Angry little bulldog throws a hissy fit _ .  

Eddie gives a grateful little whine, happy to shut his brain off for the time being.  “Thank you.”

“This is so fucking cute, watch.”  

Richie clicks on the video, and they both sit in silence, smiling ear to ear as they watch.  Eddie confesses that he’s actually an avid watcher of videos of great danes, since they’re his favorite breed.  “They’re like little horses,” he practically squeals, searching for  _ Giant great dane snuggles with dad on tiny couch _ .  

“To be honest, I chose angry little bulldog as an homage to you.”  Richie winks at him.

Eddie shoves his shoulder hard, an incredulous but flirty  _ fuck off  _ on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, simply smiling at him before turning back to his computer screen to watch the giant dog on the tiny couch.

This turns into a healthy twenty minutes of the two of them falling down a ridiculous dog video rabbit hole, Richie crouching down beside Eddie in his coat to get more comfortable.  It’s the closest they’ve been physically since Eddie was stuck in the supply closet patching up Richie’s absentminded videographer wounds, and Eddie finds his own heartbeat betraying his well-earned professionalism.

That night, his subconscious has the fucking gall to betray it, too, conjuring a blurry but inspired dream featuring Richie pinning him against a copy machine and sucking bruises into his neck.  Eddie can’t see his face, but he knows it’s Richie by the wild hair slipping between his fingers and the build of him underneath his shirt, which rides up easily under the push of Eddie’s other hand.  Weirdly, his brain manages to slip in one sharp detail: Richie’s belt, a worn, thrift store thing with soft, buttery tan leather and a big square buckle, an accessory Eddie’s apparently been paying more attention to than he’d realized. 

It takes him at least a week of awake hours in the office to fully shake off the dream.  

It’s actually much harder to control the less base feelings Richie inspires the better they get to know each other.  Eddie learns some less surprising things about Richie, like just how good he is at making everyone, not just Eddie, feel comfortable, on camera and otherwise, and more surprising things, like what makes him feel insecure (lots of things, as it turns out).  

Richie still gets intimidated at team meetings, and Eddie does his best to publicly pat him on the back at every turn for all that he’s doing behind the scenes, since, despite first impressions, Richie has no inclination to toot his own horn--at least not professionally.

Eddie finds himself feeling oddly protective of Richie in general, which he supposes is not all that uncommon for a boss to feel about any of his direct reports.  And even as accomplished as Richie is, Eddie’s known since day one that he has a disaster streak a mile wide.  

Intimacy is an occupational hazard of working so closely together, especially once the holidays start looming.  

One particularly hectic week, the entire company is torn away from all the shit they desperately need to get done for a fucking full-day professional development retreat.  Their retreats tend to be way better than the ones Eddie used to slowly die through at his last company, but when he’s got a list a mile long of shit to do by tomorrow afternoon, it’s kind of fucking hard to appreciate the value of collaboration.

To make matters even more annoying and stressful, his mother won’t stop fucking texting him during their working lunch session, asking him about his travel plans for Thanksgiving.  He shoves the rest of his turkey club in his mouth and excuses himself to call her.  He knows it’s a bad idea; he should probably wait until his blood’s stopped boiling before subjecting himself to this conversation, but it’s worth it if it means checking another dreaded activity off the list.  

Eddie shivers in the brisk November air, his coat forgotten inside, his phone pressed to the side of his face as his mother tears him a new one for not coming home for Thanksgiving for the third year  _ in a row _ .  He breathes deeply, remembering what his therapist taught him about being sympathetic but maintaining boundaries.   _ A permeable boundary _ , she’d called it.  Easier said than fucking done.  “I promise, it’s not an excuse.  Things really are crazy here right now.  I’m probably going to be in the office every day the week of Thanksgiving, except the day of.”  It isn’t a lie.

Her voice comes through the receiver like a shrill reminder of where he came from, of what he’s up against every fucking day, deep down.  “They have you working too hard there, honey.  You deserve to have a personal life, too.”

Eddie can tell she’s holding herself back, trying to sweet talk him to somehow magically convince him to change his mind.  He also knows her well enough to read between the lines of what “personal life” means.  There’s still some sick part of her that hopes he’ll wake up one day, decide he’s not gay after all, and marry some girl back home.  Just the thought of it makes his throat threaten to close up.  He shuts his eyes and focuses on his breath.  “Ma, I really don’t want to go through this again.  I’m going to see you at Christmas,” he reassures her.  “I’ll be in Maine as early as the twentieth, and I’ll be there through New Year’s.  Okay?”

Finally, she relents, asking him to be sure to call on Thanksgiving Day.  “So I know you’re all right.”

“Okay, I’ll call you.  I love you.  Bye.”  He ends the call, tearing his inhaler out of his front pocket with a low, “Fuck.”  He needs two hits before he can breathe normally.

“Family?”  A familiar voice comes from just behind him, near the door to the building downtown that they’re in for the day.

Eddie turns, looking up at Richie’s kind, open face.  He nods, pocketing his inhaler with a wince.  “Yeah.”  He shivers, turning to him fully.  “I hope you didn’t hear too much of that.”

“I heard enough.  I know that song really well.  I think I wrote that song.”  There are hundreds of stories in Richie’s eyes.  

“Are  _ you _ going home for Thanksgiving?”

“ _ No _ .”  Richie almost laughs.  “You’re doing way better than me; I don’t even talk to my parents.”

Eddie stares at him, wondering what those stories might look like.  “Well, I’m sure you have a good reason.”

“I’ve been keeping a running list of good reasons since I was, like, seven.”  

He wants to touch Richie, offer him some comfort.  He wraps his arms around himself instead.  “I’m really sorry.”

Richie shrugs.  He fiddles with a packet of cigarettes in his coat pocket, then thinks better of it, and shoves them away again.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I haven’t in a while.  Only when I’m stressed out.”

Eddie gives him a small, impish smile.  “I think that’s my fault.”

Richie grins at that, and Eddie considers it a win.  “Not entirely.”

Eddie’s eyes brighten with an idea.  “What  _ are _ you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Richie shrugs, pursing his lips, as if he hadn’t even thought about it until just now.

“Bev and I started hosting a Friendsgiving a couple years back, for people whose families live too far away, or… y’know.  We do a pretty chill dinner at my place and then we all go out to karaoke.  You’re more than welcome to join.  It’s usually all work people--all people you know.  And you can bring anyone you want.”  Eddie’s teeth start to chatter a little.

Richie’s face scrunches up as he plays up considering Eddie’s offer.  “Hmm.  What’s your go-to karaoke song?”

Eddie smiles, shuffling his feet, his shoulders bunched up near his ears.  “You’ll have to come to find out.  It’s a good one, too.  It’s super gay.”

“...Macho Man?”

“No.”  Eddie pushes past him to retreat into the warm building.

Richie follows him.  “YMCA?”

“Please,” Eddie directs a playful glare over his shoulder.  

Richie’s stride slows.  “...Another Village People song I don’t know?”

Eddie laughs, turning to walk backwards, delighting in Richie’s agony a little.  “No.  You’re not going to guess it.”

“Then I guess I have to go.”  Richie reaches out, palming Eddie’s shoulder with one of his large, warm hands.  “Thanks, Eddie.”

“Of course.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“ _ No _ , Bev and I have it covered.”  Just as they’re about to go back into the big conference hall, Eddie stops.  “Uh, if you  _ are _ going to bring someone, though, do you mind letting us know?  You know, for the headcount, so we have the portions right.”

There’s a low grade heat in Richie’s eyes as he looks down at him.  “I’m not bringing anyone.  No extra portion required.”  

Eddie can’t control his smile.  “Okay.”

“Is it Borderline?”

“No,” Eddie says firmly, heaving the door open with his body.  “No Madonna.”  He leans closer to Richie.  “But I  _ would _ rock the shit out of Express Yourself.  For the record.”

“I know you would.”


	9. Chapter 9

Eddie’s vaguely aware that he looks and sounds like a child as he whines and squirms under Bev’s hands, which are painstakingly fluffing every last hair on his head.  “This is so fucking embarrassing.  I’m almost thirty years old.”

Bev glances at his face before continuing her ministrations.  “And can still pass for twenty.”

Eddie sighs.  He does have a pretty strict moisturizing regimen.  Stan also calls him naturally blessed.  “I could have sworn we were doing this so I could get _ further away _ from my mother.  Are you almost done?”

“Just calm your tits, okay?  Jeez.”  

He looks at her suspiciously.  “Why are you so invested in how I look tonight?”

“We haven’t gone out-out together in a criminally long time,” she explains.  “I just want my bestie to look as fucking cute as he possibly can on this evening of fine holiday fun.  That’s all.”  Bev looks fantastic in all black, her fitted button-down tucked into skinny slacks.  She straightens out his sweater, a heathery carnation pink one that’s soft to the touch and perfectly fitted to his small frame, sleeves hitting his wrist bones just so, which is an accomplishment in itself.  “You’ve been so stressed out lately; you deserve to have a good time.”

“I’m not hooking up with anybody tonight, not with Richie there.”

She raises her eyebrows at him.

“ _ I mean _ : it would be unprofessional for me to do that kind of thing  _ in front of  _ him.  Because I’m his  _ boss. _ ”

“Fine,” she says lightly.  Her smile threatens to take over her face as she turns him around, brushing lint off the back of his sweater.  

Eddie watches her reflection in the full-length mirror in front of them.  “And I’m not sleeping with Richie, Bev.”

“I know, I know,” she sighs, her hands finally slowing to a stop.  “Oh my  _ God _ .”  She wraps her arms around his waist and rests her chin on his shoulder.  

He looks at himself in the mirror.  Despite his face already turning red at the attention, he has to admit he looks really good. The light colors of his sweater and his denims contrast nicely with his complexion.

“Seriously, if I liked dick, I’d send everyone home and keep you for myself.”

He blushes hard and laughs, threatening to shove her off of him, though they both know he has no plans to.  “You’re a fucking menace.  I see why the two of you get along so well.”

“Well, it’s that and our collective undying love for you, despite you being a combative little pain in the ass.”

“I’ll give you that,” Eddie shrugs.  

The doorbell rings, announcing Ben, who’d agreed to come a little early to bring over beer and help them with the final touches.

“I’ll get it,” Eddie says, Bev rushing ahead of him to start popping open wine bottles in the kitchen.

“Do you want a drink?!”

“Yes, please!”  He finds himself feeling a little nervous as he makes his way to the door.  “There may be no hooking up, but there  _ will _ be a shit-ton of alcohol,” he mutters to himself just before swinging the door open and greeting Ben with a warm smile.

By the time the others start arriving, Eddie’s one (generously poured) glass of cabernet in and feeling warm, happy, and relaxed.  His apartment smells incredible; he and Bev have finally gotten the meal timing down to a science after the first disastrous year and the second semi-disappointing one.  They’d even done a test run a few weeks before just to be sure they’d have it right this time.  (Buying some of the sides premade didn’t hurt, either.)  Besides, their friends don't care; they’re all just happy to have somewhere to go.  They’d happily eat pizza and donut holes for dinner (see again: Friendsgiving Year One) if it meant being able to fully be themselves.  

Eddie’s heart swells with gratitude as he looks around his cozy space: Mike and Bill sprawled on the couch with glasses of wine, Ben and Bev in the kitchen making sure everything’s still going according to plan, and Stan, true to form, straightening the place settings at the dining room table.  Eddie’s so proud of himself for getting out of his hometown, coming here, and creating a real life for himself, something that’s genuinely his.

The doorbell rings, and Eddie’s stomach flips.  There’s only one more person they’re waiting on.  

“Coming!” Bev shouts, mirth in her voice from something Ben’s just said.

“Got it!” Eddie shouts, sliding his empty wine glass onto the kitchen counter and straightening his sweater again on his way to the door.  He smiles at the sight of Richie through the peephole, all bundled up, a burgundy wool hat covering his wild mop, and carrying two giant cookie tins, tapping out a metallic little beat on them with his long fingers.  Eddie flings the door open and gives him a bright, “Hi.”

The look on Richie’s face is priceless.  Eddie reminds himself to buy Bev’s coffee for her for the next month.

A little noise works its way out of the back of Richie’s throat before he finds his actual voice.  “Hi.”  He stares openly at Eddie.  

Eddie ducks his head, biting back a smile.  “Civvies?”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes.  “I mean, holy shit.  You look… really nice.”  His voice is unusually quiet and reverent.  He breaks the spell by shaking his head in a quick, exaggerated way, much like a cartoon character recovering from being hit in the face with a sledgehammer.

“Thank you,” Eddie laughs, taking the tins from him and pulling him inside, feeling the cold from outside surrounding him like a halo.  

Richie pulls his hat off quickly, his curls sticking up in every direction, his nose and cheeks still pink.  “Um, I know you said not to bring anything, but I make these awesome chocolate cookies with Rolos inside of ‘em.”

Eddie gasps, opening the top tin.  “I love Rolos.”

“Me too,” Richie smiles.  “I got really weird last night and made some with York peppermint patties, too.”

Eddie holds a conspiratorial finger to his lips before popping one into his mouth.  

“I mixed ‘em all up, so it’ll be a surprise,” Richie says, watching his face.  

Eddie groans in approval at the burst of caramel on his tongue.  He snaps the top back on the tin as Bev joins them in the foyer.  

“Seriously?  You’re spoiling the dinner that we prepared ourselves?”

Eddie shrugs, still chewing, fingertips hovering over his mouth.

“Don’t let his coffee order fool you,” she tells Richie.  “He has the biggest sweet tooth I’ve ever seen.”

“You guys are the worst hosts ever,” Ben chuckles, reaching his arms out to Richie.  “Let me take your coat.”

“We’re morons,” Bev agrees, gesturing between Eddie and herself as she hands Eddie back his wine glass, freshly filled.  “Can I get you a drink?  We have beer, we have wine.  We tend to save the hard liquor for karaoke, but Eddie’s got Oban and a Glenmorangie Nectar if you want to start early.”

Richie cuts him a look as he works his long arms out of his coat.  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I  _ am  _ a good host, despite what some judgmental assholes may say.”  Eddie hip-checks Ben as he walks past, the bundle of Richie’s coat, gloves, scarf, and hat under his arms.

“I love you, too,” Ben calls over his shoulder as he disappears into Eddie’s bedroom.  

“Oban would be amazing.  Neat.”

“...Neat?”  Eddie picks some of the chocolate crumbs out of his teeth before sipping his wine.  

“It means no ice, boo-bear.”  Bev quickly furnishes a short glass with two fingers for Richie.  “Sorry, homos don’t know whiskey.”

Eddie scoffs.  “And what are you?”

“Lesbians know everything,” Bev replies sagely before lifting her beer bottle to her mouth.  

“Well, he certainly knows how to  _ pick _ a whiskey, so he gets my vote.”  Richie smiles warmly at Eddie, who flushes with pride.  

“I did my research,” he admits before tugging at Richie’s sleeve to pull him down the hall.  “Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

They take a quick spin around Eddie’s small apartment, Richie getting a glance of the bathroom, office, kitchen, living room, dining room, and bedroom, where he lingers, despite Eddie trying to urge him back into the living room where most of the others are hanging out.  Eddie stands at the threshold, patient but feeling a little exposed, noticing how hyper-observant Richie is as he examines the books and stuff on Eddie’s shelves.  

“Looking for opportunities to blackmail the boss?  You’re not going to find any.  I put away all my embarrassing shit before you got here.”

Richie smiles coyly, eyes scanning one of the upper shelves.  “I beg to differ.”  He pulls out an old, cracked CD case: the NSYNC Christmas album.  

“That album is fantastic, and I am not embarrassed.”  Eddie sips his wine primly.  “And before you ask, no: my karaoke song isn’t on there.”

“Damn it,” Richie whispers fiercely, replacing the CD.  “That’s not fair,” he says, turning back to Eddie.  “You doing recon.  I want the real thing.”

“You mean the embarrassing stuff?  No way, not yet.  Not until you’ve given me your social security number and promised me your firstborn child.”

“Okay,” Richie agrees easily as he continues making his way through the room.  

He keeps looking at him in a way that makes Eddie’s blood all buzzy, eyes raking over his features like he’s someone he’s never seen before.  And because Eddie’s one and a half glasses in, he has no qualms about giving him a light smack on the forearm and just asking outright, “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“I can’t tell you that.  Nope.”

“You think I look nice.  You already said that when you came in.”

Richie sips his whiskey and diverts his gaze elsewhere, checking out the bookshelves for a second time.  “Better than nice.”

Eddie looks up at him, the atmosphere of his own dim bedroom making him bold.  “What’s better than nice?”

Richie gives a somewhat nervous chuckle.  “Uh…”  His fingers reach up to adjust his glasses, then mess with his curls.  “Put it this way: the censors are working overtime right now.”

Eddie inhales.  Before he can reply, they’re interrupted by a knock on the doorframe.

Bev stands there with her hands on her hips, silhouetted by the light from the bright hallway.  “Hey,” she points at Eddie mock-sternly.  “I’m divorcing you if you don’t come back to the kitchen and help me get dinner on the table.”

Richie raises his eyebrows.  Eddie lowers his head and shuffles out into the hall obediently, muttering, “Yes, ma’am.”  Bev chases him with a dishtowel until they’re standing at the kitchen counter, their hands busily plating everything.  

Bev leans over, talking to Eddie through her teeth.  “I thought you said you  _ weren’t _ going to sleep with Richie.  What was all that in there?”

Eddie pushes a nervous breath out of his mouth.  “Oh my God, this non-work environment has all my defenses down.  You have to save me from myself.”

“Psh, don’t look at  _ me _ .  I’d kick everybody out right now if you wanted to make that happen.”

Eddie takes another deep breath, giving the mashed potatoes a final, somewhat aggressive stir.  

“Dude.”  Bev picks up two of the side dishes, poking her head over his shoulder on her way back into the dining room.  “Drink up.  Have fun.  Live your life.  I beg of you.”

Well, Eddie has no problem taking her first piece of advice to heart.  By the time they’re all tucking in to their first plates, he’s two and a half glasses in, which, for someone of his size, is enough to have him feeling super giddy.  He should slow down.  ...But he really doesn’t want to.  Besides, he needs something to anchor him with Richie sitting caddy-corner to him, smelling all warm and spicy and looking at him like it actually means something.

Richie seems a little looser than he’s been since going permanent, too, a little more like the Richie Eddie first met over the summer.  He often has a hard time reconciling the two versions in his brain.  

“So I have to know: what’s Eddie’s karaoke song?”

The entire table reacts loudly, some groaning, some applauding.

“Eddie told us you would ask!” Mike laughs.

“And he made us swear not to tell,” Stan rolls his eyes in Eddie’s direction.  

“It’s so much better if you don’t know ahead of time, trust me,” Bill says, looking intensely at Richie from his other side.  

“Yes,” Stan concurs.  “You’ll get to see it in live, screaming color.  Emphasis on the word  _ screaming _ .”

Richie gasps, leaning over the table.  “Are you secretly into hair bands?  Is it Cherry Pie?”  “No!” He quickly chides himself.  “You said it was super gay.  Cherry Pie is, like, lady stripper song numero uno.”

“You’ll never catch my boy singing a song about vagina.”  Bev shakes her head firmly from the head of the table.

“No, that’s a you move,” Richie nods at her.  

Bev raises her glass in agreement.  “Speaking of moves, though,” she peers at Eddie at the opposite end of the table.  “Have you seen him dance?”

“Oh  _ God _ .”  Eddie turns beet red, lowering his glass and burying his face in his hands.  He opens his palms like shutters and shoots his best friend a glare.  He’s smiling, though.  

Richie lays a hand over Eddie’s bicep.  “I can’t tell.  Is that a good or a bad  _ oh God _ ?”

“The Richie Tozier Story,” Stan jokes, earning a kick from Richie under the table.  “Ow!  Worth it.”

“It’s a good  _ oh God _ ,” Mike clarifies between bites of stuffing.  “The boy has serious moves.”  He winks at Eddie.

“I still don’t know what that means,” Richie says, sounding frustrated.  “I can’t picture it.  And believe me, I’m trying.”  He eyes Eddie pointedly.

“Stop picturing it!” Eddie laughs, batting at him halfheartedly.

Richie looks at him like he’s crazy, giving him a low, private, “No” that makes his stomach flip.

“The dancing is something you definitely have to see in person.”  Bill smiles into his beer.

“Well, somebody take out their phone and throw some shit on right now!  Fuckin’ bust a move, Eds.”

“He won’t do it on demand; it has to happen organically,” Bev says, using air quotes around Eddie’s often repeated protestation.  Ben almost chokes on his turkey next to her.

Richie leans into Eddie again, the burning scent of whiskey strangely enticing.  “I still don’t get it.  Does it mean you’re really good or you’re so bad it’s really good?”

Eddie tilts his head back, swallowing down the end of his third glass of cabernet.  “I’m full of surprises.”  He licks his lips, tasting the dryness of the tannins.  “I’ll leave it at that.”

“Surprises and suspense, apparently.”  Richie gives him one of those long looks again before finally turning back to his food.

 

The karaoke place, Limelight, is just as empty as it’s been the last two years of their tradition, but they don’t take any chances, making their way decisively toward the sequestered room at the back. 

“Oh, you guys get a private room, huh?” Richie pipes up from the back of the group.

Mike scrunches up his nose.  “Yeah, we’re kind of bougie about it.  We don’t like sharing the stage with the college kids.”

“Yeah, we’re not heathens, Rich,” Ben teases, completely stone-faced.

Richie stays close on Eddie’s heels and makes sure to sit next to him on the tiny couch in the private space, even if it means nearly taking out Stan with one of his bony elbows.  Eddie’s just one drink away from being totally fucking toasted at this point, so he doesn’t put up much of a fight, not only letting Richie lean into his space but leaning right back into his, practically stretching across his lap to snatch one of the big song binders from the side table.  “Eyes on the prize, huh, Eds?”  He extends one of his long arms across the back of the couch behind Eddie’s shoulders, perusing along with him as he flips through the pages of song selections.

“If you don’t get it in fast, Bill’s a total mic hog.”

“Hey!” Bill protests, clutching the remote to his chest protectively.

“He’s already entered two songs,” Stan says, snatching the remote back from him.  

“ _ Denbrough _ , be hospitable,” Bev scolds.  “Richie should get to pick next.”

Stan smacks away Mike’s grabby hands, ensuring Richie gets the remote and gets to choose.

“Thank you, Stanley.”  Richie makes a show of lifting the binder from Eddie’s lap and replacing it onto its own, holding the front flap half-closed so it hides the pages of songs he’s considering.

Ben orders a round of drinks as the rest of them put in their songs, Eddie somehow managing to hide his choice from Richie and keep it a surprise.  Between the atmosphere, the company, and the beverages, they’re all feeling comfortable, happy, and pretty ridiculous, cheering each other on with gusto though none of them is a singer by any stretch--at least not when they’re this intoxicated.

Bill takes his two selections far too seriously as usual: “Piano Man” by Billy Joel and “Creep” by Radiohead.  Richie insists on doing a duet with Bev to “Fight for Your Right” by the Beastie Boys, which is essentially just the two of them screaming in each other’s faces for four minutes, made all the more hilarious by the fact that Richie towers nearly a full foot over Bev.

Bill pulls out his lighter app when Ben sings “Hey Jude,” and nearly tries stealing the mic away when Mike tackles “Thriller.”  (Mike lets him share it for the Vincent Price part.)

“Are you next?  I’m so excited,” Richie says to Eddie, showing him his hands.  “I’m shaking.”

“Shut up,” Eddie giggles.  “There’s been so much buildup,” he whines as the music fades and the screen goes blank again, loading his song.  He accepts the mic and stands, a little wobbly on his feet.  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a letdown.”  

But when the artist and title pixelate psychedelically onto the screen, Richie’s eyes go comically wide.  The others cheer in anticipation.  Richie pulls out his phone and immediately starts recording.  

Eddie doesn’t care.  He feels amazing, and this is his fucking jam, so he throws himself into it as always, shouting more than singing the lyrics into the microphone.  “ _ I feel the night explode when we’re together.  Emotion overload, in the heat of pleasuuuuuuuure! _ ”

He goes down the line, serenading each and every one of his friends, and they all join in with him when the chorus hits, crowding around him and performing to Richie’s phone.  “ _ Tell it to my heart, tell me I’m the only one, is this really love or just a gaaaaame? _ ”  Richie’s trying so hard not to laugh so he can keep his phone steady, climbing onto the back of the couch to capture the entire group in the tiny room.  

By the time Eddie gets to what’s clearly everyone’s favorite part ( _ Looove, love on the run,  _ et cetera), his throat is raw from all the alcohol--and from screaming the fucking song as loud as he possibly can--but he manages to croak the rest of the lyrics out, finishing to raucous applause.  

The group only lasts about another half hour, Eddie cuddling up to Mike and closing his eyes for the last ten minutes until he gives him a little nudge and a gentle, “We’re getting out of here, dude.”

Eddie stands and follows Bev to her car, half-asleep, vaguely registering Richie offering to join them back at Eddie’s to help clean up before he’s passed out in the backseat.  He wakes up what feels like only seconds later, Richie smiling at him under Bev’s horribly bright car light as he leans into the backseat.  “C’mon, Tiny Boss Man.  I’ll give you a piggyback.”

Eddie somehow motivates his limbs to wrap around Richie’s neck and waist, the rest of him collapsing onto his back with a heavy sigh.  He finally opens his eyes again when Richie deposits him onto his own bed.  He starts heeling his shoes off and unbuttoning his jeans.

Richie lays a hand on his shoulder.  He's little more than a tall, dark shadow in his dark bedroom.  “Whoa whoa whoa, wait until I’ve said goodbye before you do that.”

“Oh shit.  Sorry.”  Eddie stares at his face until he can make out the shine of his eyes, the slope of his nose, and the curve of his lips in the dark.  Somewhere in the background, he can hear Bev moving back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen, plates and utensils clanging softly together.

Richie sits at the foot of Eddie’s bed and carefully unties his shoes, taking them off properly and setting them down on the rug.  Eddie can’t help but envision how the rest of this night might go if they were a couple, Richie ducking into the bathroom to quickly brush his teeth and climbing into bed next to him, holding him close.

“I’m sorry I got so drunk tonight.”

Richie lets out a sweet laugh and scoots up the mattress until he’s sitting right at Eddie’s side.  “Don’t apologize.  I’m just happy to be here with you."  He clears his throat.  "Thank you again for inviting me.  I had a blast.  Besides, you weren’t my boss tonight; you were my friend.  And for what it’s worth, I think you really needed to get drunk.”  

There’s silvery light filtering in through Eddie’s window, either from the moon or a streetlamp, he can’t tell which, illuminating Richie’s pale face and long neck.  “You’re really pretty,” Eddie says with a little smile.

Richie pulls a dorky, shocked face that makes Eddie laugh.  “Hey, Marsh, did you get that?!” he calls out to the kitchen.  “He called me pretty.  Can we get that on record, please?!”

“Got it!”

“That’s sweet of you,” Richie says, leaning in, “but I believe the title of ‘really pretty’ can only be bestowed upon one man this Friendsgiving.”  Eddie rolls his eyes, turning away a little.  Richie sounds oddly serious all of a sudden.  “Don’t do that.  Don’t downplay it.”  He licks his lips, then whispers, “I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight.”

That sobers Eddie up really fucking fast.  “Bev did my hair,” he says stupidly.

Richie reaches up, wrapping one of Eddie’s curls around his finger and letting it spring back.  “She did good.”  That same hand drifts down, laying gently against Eddie’s cheek.

“Richie…”

“I know.  Super unprofessional.  I should go.”  He swipes his thumb over Eddie’s cheekbone, watching its path, then stands, turning and walking to the bedroom door.  “See you in the office tomorrow?”

“Dead or alive,” is Eddie’s retort; he’s anticipating a monster hangover.  

Richie gives him a lopsided grin from the doorway.  “Bye.”

Eddie closes his eyes and listens, his heart full at the sound of Richie and Bev exchanging warm goodnights, Richie thanking her no less than five times for dinner--and for doing most of the cleanup.  

As soon as the door snaps shut behind him, Bev groans, “OH MY GOD, THAT WAS AGONY” loud enough for Eddie’s entire fucking block to hear.

Eddie makes a distressed sound and spazzes in his bed, still fully clothed.  He pulls his pillow out from underneath his head, presses it against his face, and grunts, “I hate everything.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after Friendsgiving.

Eddie wakes up the next morning to the tinkle of his alarm and a telltale pain that starts behind his left eye and takes a vicious path all the way to the back of his head.  “No,” he groans, pushing his thumb into it from the front.  He hears Bev shuffling around in the bathroom in Eddie’s stolen slippers, which means she, like most of the American public, has no intention of going into work today.  Eddie, unfortunately, is not most of the American public.

He stretches luxuriously, grasping at the edges of dreams fed by alcohol and proximity to Richie, dreams with no narrative or logic but that still feel warm and sexy in his body.  He parses out the moments that actually happened before he fell asleep and which were conjured by his own leftover longing.  There’s a hop in his stomach when he remembers Richie’s final words to him before he scooted out the door.  He’ll be in the office today.  It’s enough to have him sitting upright.  His head throbs.  “ _ Nooooo _ .”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Bev says, entering with a tall glass of water and his bottle of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet.  “That’s why we’re here.  Because you said yes to about a bottle of wine and a couple of mixed drinks last night.”  She sits on his bed and shakes two tablets into the palm of his hand.  “And you’re the asshole who said yes to going into work today.  Can’t you do it from home?”

“No, a couple of my direct reports are working today, it’d be demoralizing for me to not show up,” he says before shooting back the pills dry and chasing them with a gulp of water and a sigh.

Bev smirks.  “ _ Oh _ .  Well that answers that question.”  Before Eddie can protest, she rests a hand on his knee and says, “Okay, let’s pretend for five seconds that you’re not Richie’s boss.”

Eddie whines, not at all ready for this conversation after having just opened his eyes three seconds ago.

“Pretend you don’t even work in the same office.  Would you still be fighting this so hard?”

Now Eddie understands why his best friend’s laying into him so soon; she knows his defenses are down, the truth already on the tip of his tongue.  He lets it spill.  “You know how long it’s been since I’ve been with anyone.”  He swallows down the rest of the water gratefully.  “Richie seems like… the opposite of that.”  Keeping any trysts with Richie to his dream life may not satiate, but at least it’s safer.  

Bev looks at him with kind, patient eyes.  “Why do you think he’ll even give a shit?”

Eddie pulls at a loose string at the edge of his chenille blanket.  “This is going to sound crazy, but I have this irrational fear that I’ve literally forgotten how to touch another person.  Like, what is that even like?”

“Like riding a bike.”

“How would you know?”  He tries raising an eyebrow at her even as he continues massaging his hangover headache.  “You haven’t gone a day in your life without someone throwing their bra at you.  I don’t want to disappoint him,” he mutters. 

“Uh.”  Bev’s eyes slant into a more familiar skepticism.  “Have you seen the way he looks at you?  You could just  _ lay there _ and he’d be fucking thrilled.  Trust.”

Eddie’s smile threatens to take over his entire face.  “How does he look at me?”

“The way you look at him when you think no one’s paying attention,” she shoots back.

He doesn’t respond to that, and Bev immediately gets that that’s the end of the Richie conversation, at least for now.  She throws her head into his lap.  “Can I hang out here today while you’re at work?  Your apartment’s so much nicer than mine.”

After some playful bickering, Eddie relents, giving Bev not only his slippers but his robe while he begrudgingly gets his ass ready for work.  

 

The office is beautifully quiet, but Eddie is the opposite of productive, sipping his coffee and switching between his personal e-mail and Slack to double-check that no instant messages have come in that he’s missed by some unknown glitch.  He desperately wants to go upstairs and see if Richie’s here, but he feels strangely shy about it.  Even if nothing happened last night, they definitely crossed some boundaries.  He squirms in his chair remembering the soft rasp in Richie’s voice and the way his thumb skated across his cheek.  He somehow manages to restrain himself from playing out how the rest of that scenario might have gone if he’d actually had the balls to do something about it. 

When he notices a full hour has passed and he hasn’t checked anything off of his ever-growing to do list, Eddie starts actually plowing through stuff.  Social never fucking stops, after all, and he and Richie have an EOB deadline for the final installment in a campaign they’ve been working on since Richie first went permanent.  Richie’s part in it is totally done; Eddie is still putting the finishing touches on the social delivery.  

As soon as it’s ready--which isn’t until around three--Eddie messages Richie.  

_ Edward Kaspbrak: Did you end up coming in today?  I have something to show you. _

Richie responds right away.

_ Richard Tozier: I hope it’s a reprise of Taylor Dayne.  Or maybe some Whitney?  Mix it up? _

Eddie laughs out loud at his desk.

_ Edward Kaspbrak: Just get down here. _

Eddie wants to add a “smartass” to the end of his message, but Slack is a work program, so he decides against it.  They might be monitored.

Less than a minute later, Eddie hears a ridiculous falsetto crooning down the hall: “ _ There’s a boy I know, he’s the one I dream of _ .”

Eddie blushes.  And because he knows their floor--and the entire fucking building--is empty, he calls, “Fuck you, you’re not getting any Whitney!”

Richie finally appears, poking his head through Eddie’s door whimsically, already shimmying his shoulders.  “ _ How will I know if he really loves me?  I say a prayer with every heartbeat. _ ”  He stands tall and saunters in, a bottle of wine from the break room dangling from one of his elegant hands, an opener from the other.  “Wishful thinking,” he explains.  “I hope this is a celebratory, ‘I have something to show you.’”

“It is,” Eddie smiles, “but I can’t even look at that wine right now.”

“Aww,” he pouts all too appealingly.  “You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?”  He plants the wine on Eddie’s desk and starts working at the cork.  

Minutes later, they’re sharing the bottle and they’ve watched the video three times, Richie having pulled the visitor’s chair around the desk for a better look.  His lips are stained purple, and Eddie’s having a really hard fucking time not staring.  

“It’s really good,” he says, refocusing on work.   _ Work _ .  That’s why they’re here.  He feels like a nerd for asking, but he does anyway.  “Do you think it’ll go viral?”

There’s a tentative but fierce excitement to Richie’s reply.  “It’s always such a crapshoot.  The stuff I’m sure will do well often doesn’t, and the stuff that  _ has _ gone viral is usually pretty unexpected.  Then if it does go viral, we have to deal with living up to it.  Both internally and externally.”

Eddie recognizes Richie’s insecurities surfacing again.  “We all know that social is unpredictable.  I don’t think anybody has those expectations, Rich.”

“Yeah, they do.  That’s why they hired me.”

Eddie’s nose wrinkles.  A part of him knows Richie’s right.  “Well… I’ve got your back.  Whatever happens with it.”

“Thanks,” Richie says softly.  He takes another sip of wine and passes the bottle silently back to Eddie.  “Thank you again for yesterday.  It was really fun.”

Eddie accepts, hyperaware of the warmth he tastes on the rim, the slight foreign warmth that is the trace of Richie's own mouth.  “You were a great addition to the group.  We loved having you there.”  Eddie’s heart pounds as he takes another sip of the pinot noir, gearing himself up for what he’s about to say, considering for a  _ long _ moment whether or not it’s out of bounds before finally opening his mouth.  “I was surprised you didn’t bring anyone.  Are you not…?”

“No, nothing serious,” Richie quickly says.  “And nothing at all lately.  I’ve had to be pretty dedicated here.”  He reaches for the wine again, leaning pointedly into Eddie’s space as he does. 

Eddie cheers internally.  “I don’t want to get in the way of you having a life.  I mean, I don’t want your job to.”

“Like I said: nothing serious.  So it’s really no big loss.”  Richie gives him a playful look as he raises the bottle to his lips.  “Why are you surprised that I didn’t bring anyone?  I’m not  _ that _ much of a ho.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Eddie flushes, laughing as he leans his cheek on one of his hands, holding himself up by planting his elbow on the desk.  “I don’t know.  I mean…”  He trails off, a million possible ways to end that sentence scrolling across his brain like ticker tape.   _ You’re too much of a fucking catch?  You’re sweet and fun and viciously smart and gorgeous?  I can barely look at you without my palms starting to sweat? _

Richie speaks before he can.  “ _ You _ didn’t bring anyone.” 

Eddie fixes him with a serious look.  “Oh, I forgot to tell you.  I turned Bev.  We’re together now.”

Richie sets the bottle back down on Eddie’s desk, covering his mouth to prevent from doing a spit take.  He swallows and cackles.  

“Apparently I’m the gateway straight, too.”  He watches Richie slowly recover and look at him expectantly.  Eddie swivels in his chair, avoiding his eyes.  “I already told you I don’t date much.  Or at all.”

Richie hesitates, crossing his arms, one hand perched in front of his mouth, hiding the bottom half of his face.  “You’re depriving the world, you know.”

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to laugh.  “ _ Depriving the world? _  That’s a little strong.”

“No, it’s not.  It fits.  Trust me.”

Eddie sees the naked honesty in his dark eyes and hears the echo of his words from the night before:  _ I couldn’t take my eyes off of you _ .  He finds it impossible to backtrack from that intimacy now, all the more  _ because _ it’s been so goddamn long for him since he’s had that with anyone.  “When was the last time you had something serious?”

“Uh…”  Richie actually looks embarrassed.  “Never?  I’m not sure I’m even capable.”

“Have you ever been in love with anyone?”  Eddie’s voice comes out soft. 

Richie takes another drink.  “Yes.”

Eddie waits, but he doesn’t elaborate.  He nudges Richie’s foot with his own.  “Suddenly not so chatty.  What’s that about?”

“I have a horrible habit of falling for unattainable people.”

“Do you think you’re not worth it?  Someone attainable, who you can have something real with.”

Richie’s eyes fill with something resembling pain, and then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it fades.  He laughs it off.  “People don’t--they haven’t seen me that way.  I’m the Good Time Guy.  You know,  _ for a good time, call-- _ ” he sings a riff of  _ 867-5309 _ .

“I got it,” Eddie says gently.  “I don’t buy it.  You’re the only one keeping yourself in that box.”

“What about you?” Richie leans forward in the chair, the squeak of it undercutting his play at confrontation.  

“What  _ about  _ me?”

“When was the last time you had a good time?” Richie asks.  

It’s not the question Eddie’d expected.  Nor the one he wanted.  “I don’t think I’m ready to share that with you yet.”

Richie purses his lips, clearly having gotten the message that he shouldn’t push it.  But he just can’t help himself.  “So it’s been a while?”

“Yes.  And longer than you would guess.  I’ll leave it at that.”  Eddie reaches for the bottle.  

Richie clearly wants to ask more, but he settles back into the chair with a heavy sigh.  “Depriving the world,” he reiterates. 

Eddie drinks with a shrug, licking the taste from his lips.  They’re already starting to feel awfully dry.  “How do you do that when it doesn’t matter?”

Richie’s response is immediate and just as honest.  “How do you do it when it  _ does _ ?”  He blows a heavy exhale through his mouth, puffing up his cheeks. “I don’t know if I could.  I feel like I’d explode into a million pieces.”

“When it’s good, that’s the idea,” Eddie replies without thinking, and it sounds way too much like a come-on.  It dawns on him again just how alone they are in the office, in this tiny room, how fucking inappropriate they’re probably being.  But he just can’t stop.  He doesn’t want to. 

Richie’s expression is sweet and open. 

Eddie clears his throat and shifts again, scooting to the edge of his chair and raising his hands over the keyboard.  “Shall we send this baby off?  A full hour and a half early.”

“We’re so awesome.”

“Yeah, we are.”


	11. Chapter 11

The weekend finds Eddie trying his best to be a person and not freak out about the week to come.  The final video in his and Richie’s campaign blasts out on Tuesday at noon, and he feels like there’s so much at stake, especially in light of the fears Richie expressed to him the day after Thanksgiving.  He wants it to do well, not only because it’ll be a reflection on his own work, as a marketer and as a manager, but because it’ll give Richie his first much needed boost at work.  He’s been doing a phenomenal job, especially in Eddie’s eyes (and he’d know better than anyone), but if Richie doesn’t start letting himself off the hook a little more, he’s sure to burn out by the end of the year.  

Eddie’s starting to have a really hard fucking time figuring out how much of his need to protect and support Richie is him being a caring manager and how much of it is for another reason altogether.  

On top of the video release, he and Richie are heading to Vermont bright and early Monday morning for a three-day work trip.  It had been Richie’s idea to do an on-site shoot at a whiskey distillery up there, since they’re a client of the company’s and, in Richie’s words, alcohol is always top of mind this time of year.  “Plus,” he’d added, “the hipsters will love it.”  (“You say that as if you aren’t one,” Eddie’d shot back, of course.)

Eddie spends much of the weekend drinking copious amounts of tea, shuffling around in sweatpants and a thick sweater, switching between a  _ Jersey Shore _ marathon and  _ National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation _ , and avoiding packing entirely. 

When Richie sends him a text Sunday night to confirm pickup time, he mentions that their marketing intern, a hilariously wide-eyed college student named Mark who’ll be acting as Richie’s PA, will be joining them for the ride.  Eddie finds himself stuck between disappointment and relief, though it’s a needed reality check.  He finally stops agonizing over which pairs of jeans to pack and fills his suitcase as if it’s for any other work trip.

His heart tugs when he climbs into Richie’s passenger seat the next morning well before dawn; he’d clearly rolled right out of bed and into his car, imprints from his bedsheets still adorning his pale face and long legs encased in an absurd pair of flannel pajama pants with frogs on them.  His eyes are puffy behind his glasses, his lips chapped, but he gives Eddie a sweet, genuine smile.  “Hey.”  His voice is thick and raspy, and it makes Eddie stutter. 

“I, um.  I.”  Eddie settles two Starbucks cups into the holders between them.  “Words?” Richie laughs tiredly.  “You’re a vanilla latte, right?”  He taps the cup intended for Richie.

“ _ Holy shit, I love you _ .  I didn’t have any time this morning.”  Richie shimmies the cup out of the holder and takes several grateful sips in silence.  

Eddie smiles proudly to himself, snapping his seatbelt as he takes in some of the details of Richie’s car.  He’s never been in it before.  

Richie lowers the cup for a beat and takes him in.  “How do  _ you _ manage to look so presentable right now?”  He pounds more of his latte.  

“I like mornings,” Eddie shrugs.  Richie doesn’t need to know he’d gotten up extra early to mull over his appearance in the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes. 

“Mornings like you, too, clearly,” Richie says, energized, and finally abandons his cup for the time being.  “Alright.  Let’s go pick Mark up from his mom’s house.”  

Eddie laughs out loud, disrupting the quiet of the dark morning as Richie shifts the car into gear and they start making their way north.     
  


They have a full day of prep with some light shooting, everyone in great spirits, especially Richie, who’s not only in his element leading the shoot but who is absolutely loving learning the ins and outs of how the distillery operates.  Eddie has to admit it’s cool, even if he’s not a big whiskey drinker.  By the end of the day, the three of them are exhausted, and Eddie couldn’t be happier to settle into their AirBNB.  Eddie’d initially set up a stay for himself at a proper hotel downtown, but Richie’d managed to convince him to piggyback onto his reservation in the basement of a beautiful, rustic home in the woods.  “I’m paying for two bedrooms, anyway,” he’d explained, showing Eddie every detail of the reservation to seal the deal, including that it was LGBTQ-friendly.  Eddie’d had to admit: the place looked gorgeous, and it was way cheaper than the hotel.  They’d kept Mark downtown to avoid any potential liability with his college, though.

As they pull into the driveway of the AirBNB, the sky already dark again, Eddie finds himself far too tired to give in to any of the anxiety that would have inevitably reared its ugly head by now.   _ Deep in the woods, staying in a stranger’s home, misrepresentation, blah blah blah _ .   _ Just point me to the nearest bed. _

Their host, Nina, meets them downstairs as soon as they’re in the door, her little French bulldog scrambling awkwardly behind her, panting and snorting.  Eddie’s all too grateful that Richie still has the energy to engage with the both of them, chatting animatedly with Nina from where he messes with the dog, Pasha, on the carpet while Eddie yawns and quietly takes in the space.  

When Nina and Pasha finally retreat upstairs (the latter with several longing looks back at Richie the whole way there), Eddie turns to Richie with a somewhat confused expression.

Richie finally takes in the room--just one room, albeit a really large one, with a set of four curtains creating two spaces.  “Oh.”  He raises his eyebrows, looking truly alarmed.  “There’s another bed in there, right?”  He points to the area beyond the closed curtains.  

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry--I can take you back to the hotel--”

“Richie,” Eddie stops him.  “This is great.  It’s awesome.  I really don’t care.  As long as you don’t, of course.”  Richie shakes his head vigorously.  Eddie smiles.  “I mean, look.”  He nods toward the set of windows on the opposite side of the room, looking out over a lake and an endless sea of birch trees. 

Richie walks over and whistles.  “Wow.  That’s going to look amazing in the morning, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly, yawning again.  

Richie looks at him, scrunching his nose.  “So I take it dinner is out?”

Eddie blushes.  He hadn’t even realized they’d had plans.  “Can we order in?”  He bites his lip, registering how coupley it all is, the two of them in this space alone together, deciding in hushed tones how to spend their night.  

“ _ Yes.   _ Shut your brain off, get settled.  I got you.”  Richie pulls out his phone, presumably to put in an order for something.  They’ve worked over lunch enough times for him to know what Eddie likes, and Eddie doesn’t give a shit where it comes from at this point. 

He pulls his luggage into the space beyond the curtain, a proper bedroom with bookshelves, a TV, and nightstands.  There’s even a hotplate and a coffee machine.  He wanders over to one of the bookshelves, throwing his head back and laughing at the selection of movies he finds on the top shelf:  _ Tipping the Velvet, If These Walls Could Talk 2,  _ and, oddly,  _ Hitch _ , among others.  He snaps a photo of the DVD lineup with his phone and texts it to Bev with the caption,  _ Pretty sure our AirBNB host is a giant lesbian _ .  According to Bev, it’s worthy of a streaming tears of laughter emoji and the caption  _ 1000%.   _ He’ll have to have her explain  _ Hitch  _ to him when he gets back.

Eddie lays his rolling suitcase flat on the floor, open, picking out a cozy pair of scrub pants he’d stolen from a med student friend of his and a heather grey long-sleeved thermal.  He quickly slips into them, then putzes around the room, setting some stuff on the nightstand--a book or two, his phone, a bottle of water, his inhaler--before opening all the curtains, allowing him and Richie to see into each other’s spaces.  

Richie looks up at him from where he sits on his own bed reviewing today’s footage, still in his clothes from the day, one leg tucked in, bare foot resting on his inner thigh, and the other dangling over the side.  “Hello, Nurse.”

“Shut up,” Eddie smirks.

 

Eddie sleeps like the dead and wakes up ass-early the next morning, since he’d passed out around nine the night before.  He shuffles out of bed and peers through one of the curtains, making out Richie’s sleeping form in the bed across the room, full-on starfishing, his dark crown of curls a stark contrast against the white pillowcase, a tie-dye headband pushing it back from his face.  He’d left one of the bedside lamps on, a thick autobiography of Alfred Hitchcock open and straddling one of his ankles facedown, his glasses at the foot of the mattress holding on for dear life.  Eddie’s barely awake, but just looking at him makes his fingers fucking itch.   

He walks slowly across the room on the balls of his feet and lifts the heavy tome from the bed, shutting it quietly and placing it on the bedside table, along with Richie’s glasses, turning off the lamp on his way to the bathroom.  

Though the morning is ample, at least for Eddie, it rushes by, a blur of the two of them mentally and physically preparing themselves for the ten-hour day they’re about to spend mostly on their feet.  

Eddie’s noticed a steady, thrumming energy about Richie on shoot days.  He moves through space more confidently, as if anticipating every possible obstacle and ready to say, “Bring it the fuck on.”  Eddie wonders if he secretly finds their office environment stifling or worse, boring, if the freelance life will ultimately siren-call him back.  It’s alarming how upsetting it is when Eddie imagines not seeing him every day.  

The staff at the distillery are incredible: kind, knowledgeable, passionate, and hilarious.  Eddie immediately understands why Richie chose this place out of all the distilleries in New England.  Much like him, it oozes personality.  Eddie helps Richie and Mark as best he can, holding up bounce boards whenever Richie asks but mostly staying out of the way. 

At around three, Richie realizes he needs to grab some footage of the rye fields; they’ll lose the sunlight soon, and there’s snow in the forecast for tomorrow, so they won’t be able to get it then.  The air certainly feels like a precursor to snow, dry and somewhat ominous.  Eddie shivers, clutching his afternoon coffee.  

He’s been dutifully ignoring his phone since just before lunch, giving himself the excuse that he’s out of town and busy--when really, he’s too scared to see how his and Richie’s video is doing.  He feels like an idiot; he’s had plenty of campaigns fail in the past, and he’s been able to see every single one as a learning opportunity, a way of improving his own strategy.  He’s also had to do his share of coaching a direct report through a failure, and he’s had direct reports far less seasoned and far more sensitive than Richie.  Still, the stakes feel somehow too high.  

It’s around three-twenty when he feels the early signs of an attack.   _ Fuck.  Not now. _  He doesn’t want to ruin the shoot, and Richie’s almost done grabbing the exterior footage for the day.  He takes a deep breath, trying to hold it off.  

“Eds, you okay?” Richie tosses over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the viewfinder.  

Eddie should feel comforted that Richie’s already noticed something’s off, but it only frustrates him.  He rolls his eyes at himself.  “One sec.”  He has the horrible realization as he’s reaching for his phantom inhaler that he hadn’t stuffed it into one of his pockets that morning--which, of course, only accelerates the attack.  

Mark and Richie both turn around.  “ _ Shit _ ,” Richie says, immediately understanding what’s happening.  He hands the camera blindly to Mark, who holds it like a wild animal, and rushes over to Eddie, about to reach a hand out and comfort, then flinches back, realizing that physical contact might not be the best course of action in this case. 

“Cold and dry,” Eddie explains, trying to infuse his weak voice with as much of an apologetic tone as he can muster.  

“Don’t talk.  Come on,” Richie says, urging him back inside into the warmth, Mark on their heels.  “You don’t have your inhaler.”  It isn’t quite a question, but Eddie shakes his head anyway, pointing vaguely upwards.  “At the AirBNB?”  Eddie nods.  “ _ Shit _ .  It’s okay.”  Richie sounds calm, but Eddie knows better.  Richie fumbles for his keys--both to his car and to the rental--and throws them at Mark, who’s already packed away the camera and catches them clumsily.  Richie punches away at his phone and throws that at him, too, the sound of the GPS starting on directions to the AirBNB.  Mark is already halfway out the door, and Richie leaves Eddie for a brief moment to get in his face.  Eddie works hard to steady his wheezing breath as he hears Richie hiss, “Drive as fast as you fucking can, I don’t care if you run over a fucking deer.   _ GO. _ ”  Just as quickly, he’s at Eddie’s side again, kneeling next to the bench where he’d managed to sit himself down.  He watches him closely.  “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“Not yet,” Eddie manages.  

Richie blows a heavy exhale out of his mouth.  “That’s good.  You’re going to be fine.”

Eddie pulls weakly at the collar of his coat and his shirt.  Richie gets the hint, unbuttoning the former and urging it off of his shoulders, then undoing one or two buttons on his shirt.  Eddie opens a shaking hand, imploring, eyes on the floor as he counts out his inhales and exhales, and Richie slides his fingers into his palm.

“Here.  Just squeeze the shit out of it, however hard you need to.”  Richie’s arms are long enough that he’s able to keep their hands together and still keep somewhat of a distance from Eddie, give him space.  “I’m right here.  I’m not going anywhere.”  He reaches into Eddie’s coat pocket to get his phone, presumably checking for any texts from Mark.  

Eddie’s heart is thunderous in his ears, afraid of how long Mark might take to find the inhaler, annoyed at himself for not coming prepared, guilty for curtailing the shoot.

Richie smiles ruefully, reading his mind.  “It’s not important.  We got plenty of great footage.  I’m not just saying that.”

Eddie closes his eyes, his breath starting to bend somewhat to his will.  Richie catches on, matching the rhythm of what he’s trying to achieve.  He’s grateful that they’re alone now.

“That’s really good.  You’re doing great.”  

It feels like an eternity that they’re sitting in the hallway like that, before Mark finally bursts through the door, face red, breathing heavily.  He throws the inhaler at Richie, who hands it over to Eddie, who sucks on it gratefully.  Eddie feels Richie’s hand on his knee as he takes three deep, delicious hits.  

“Good?” Richie asks, his patina of calm eroding, belying his desperation. 

Eddie nods with a small smile, feeling himself settling back into his body.  “Getting there.”

“Thank God,” Richie exhales, resting his head on his arm over the bench briefly before standing and pulling Mark into a hug.  “You’re a goddamn superhero.  Thank you.  I’m sorry if I was a dick before.”  He turns back to Eddie, who’s watching him curiously, and messes with the hair at the back of his head, looking suddenly bashful.  “What triggered it, do you think?”

Eddie sighs, the sound warm and healthy to his own ears.  “I dunno.  Probably something in the air,” he lies. 

“Stupid fucking air.”  

Mark and Eddie laugh. 

Richie squats down next to him again, watching as the color slowly returns to his face.  “You’re okay, Spaghetti Man.  Not a freckle out of place.”  He touches a fingertip to his nose.  “Boop.”

Eddie giggles, his limbs flooding with the sheer relief of feeling okay again.  He never thought he’d be so glad to hear Richie call him that.

Richie’s smile is blinding.  “Mark, do you mind loading up the car?  I personally am fucking done for the day,” he says firmly.  

“Same,” Mark manages, twirling Richie’s keys on his way back outside, leaving them alone again.

“Well, that was fucking embarrassing,” Eddie says, buttoning his shirt.

Richie settles onto the bench next to him.  “You know, you  _ are  _ allowed to be a person in front of me.”

“No.  What’s embarrassing is I don’t even have asthma, not really.”

The sassy expression on Richie’s face unequivocally says,  _ Then what the fuck did I just witness?   _ “I don’t follow, Eds.”

“They’re panic attacks,” Eddie explains.  “I’ve had them since I was a kid.  My mom was  _ convinced  _ it wasn’t mental, or at least that’s what she wanted me to believe… and got me on this.”  He shakes the inhaler.  “I know it’s not real, but it’s still the only thing that helps.  I hate it.”

“I mean, whatever works,” Richie says gently.  “Hey: our vices cancel each other out.  You need something to give you breath, I need something to take mine away.”  He mimes smoking.  

Eddie watches him with a soft expression.  “I’m okay now.  You don’t have to keep vamping.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me.”  Richie makes a distressed sound, the panic of the situation finally dawning on him, now that it’s over.  “Holy fuck, that was terrifying.  I was going to kill Mark if he didn’t come back in the next five seconds.”

“Richie: I’m okay.  It’s happened before, it’ll probably happen again at some point.”

“Could you make sure I’m not there when it does?  I think I just grew five ulcers.”  Richie settles his hand over Eddie’s on the bench.  “I really don’t want to see you like that again.”

“I’ll try my best.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s mom sucks, but Eddie knows how to get him to smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, folks, but, uh, gratifying, I hope. ;)
> 
> Also, just FYI: it my headcanon that when it comes to dancing, Eddie Kaspbrak is capable of something like this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRltYsIvRCM
> 
> (Bonus: check out those shorts)

Richie keeps an especially close eye on Eddie that night, as if he’ll forget how to breathe entirely at any given moment.  They order in again, despite Eddie insisting that he’s totally fine now, though Richie promises they can grab breakfast or lunch on their way out tomorrow--and pick up some maple syrup and cider doughnuts, which had been at least half of Eddie’s reason for coming in the first place.  

Eddie closes the curtains so he can lay down and fuck around on his social media accounts.  (And maybe start dipping into all those articles he’d bookmarked this past weekend about the perils of getting romantically involved with one’s direct report.)  Bev’s questions the day after Friendsgiving had really gotten to him, made him sincerely consider how he’d be handling this if he were a braver person, and more importantly, how he’d be handling it if he and Richie weren’t even coworkers.  The honest answers had pointed to him being far more cowardly than cautious, or even professional.  

And the truth is, a large part of why Eddie hasn’t been involved with anyone in so long is that he hasn’t really been drawn to anyone with whom he’s seen true potential.  The more time he spends with Richie, the more he realizes how much he wants to build something with him, how much they already are building together.  

Eddie suddenly hears scrambling coming from the other side of the curtain.  He quickly exes out of a Dear Abby style article, in which a reader asks about the legalities of her business partner shuffling one of his direct reports to her because they’ve begun a relationship.  

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” comes Richie’s voice from the other side of the room.

Eddie scrambles out of bed, grabbing one of his discarded shoes and rushing through one of the curtains, poised to squish whatever Richie’s uncovered in this stranger’s basement.  “ _ What, what, what? _ ”

But Richie looks way more delighted than distressed, eyes on his laptop screen.  He stands and approaches Eddie, gently taking the shoe from his grip and tossing it aside.  “I’m going to ask for your preemptive forgiveness for making this joke.”  He lays his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, an exuberant smile lighting up his face.  “I’ve got something that’s  _ really _ gonna leave you breathless.”

Eddie smacks his hands.  “Asshole.”  Then he realizes: Richie can only mean one thing.  He feels his own eyes go wide.  “ _ Oh my God, what? _ ”

Richie palms his cheeks.  “Are you ready, Eddie?”

Eddie laughs, unable to help himself.  “Show me.”

Richie reaches for his laptop and simply turns it around.  Eddie takes a deep breath as he walks over.  He stares at the screen, at their video and the view count, in utter disbelief.  “We’re definitely gonna hit a million by midnight.”

Eddie clamps both hands over his mouth, squealing, the sound of which is apparently enough to send Pasha scrabbling around the living room floor upstairs, if the noise from above is any indication.  “ _ I can’t fucking believe it _ .”  Richie envelops him in an impossibly warm, tight hug and Eddie melts into it, head nestled right underneath Richie’s chin, the sound of Richie’s heartbeat thrilling to his ears.  His mind immediately turns back to the article he’d just been reading.  If what’s developing between them is so wrong, why does it feel like this?

Richie ruins the moment only somewhat by holding his arms up in victory and shouting, “I am the smartest man alive!”

 

It isn’t such a drag to be going right into the office on their way back from Vermont when the whole Marketing team is there to greet them with a celebration.  At this point, they’re now officially well on their way to going viral, their video set to pass three million views by the end of the day.  It’s all ridiculous and really over the top, some of their colleagues wearing lab coats and serving champagne out of test tubes and beakers, but Eddie can’t help feeling vindicated; they’ve been working their asses off on this entire campaign.  It’s one of the few times his recognition feels totally deserved. 

In the buzz of the party, he loses track of Richie, not realizing he’s disappeared until about an hour in.  He excuses himself so he can make his way up to Richie’s office but finds it empty and completely dark.  On a whim, he continues down the hall to check his own, and lo and behold, Richie’s laying on his back on the carpet, resting an empty beaker on the middle of his chest.  He looks like a completely different person than the one Eddie’d walked into the building with earlier.  His expression is grim.  

He moves to rise when he notices Eddie there.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t want anyone to find me, so I didn’t go to mine.”

“No, no,” Eddie waves a hand at him, urging him to stay supine.  He leans on the doorframe.  “Is everything okay?” 

“No,” Richie says darkly, then explains, “My mother called.”

Eddie immediately thinks the worst.  “Oh God, what--”

“Nothing happened,” Richie reassures him.  “She called to ask me for money.  Apparently one of my aunts told her about me getting a job here, and…”  Richie purses his lips and shrugs.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie takes a deep breath.  “You wanna get out of here?”  Richie looks up at him, his eyes soft and curious.  “You can keep drinking, and we can talk shit about our moms, just the two of us.  Or you can just drink.  Whatever you need.”

Richie’s response is immediate.  “Yes, please.”

“Okay.”  Eddie crosses the room quickly, grabbing his coat from his desk chair.  “I’m gonna go get your coat, and we’re gonna sneak out the back stairwell.”

“Ooh, I love an Irish exit.”

Eddie takes it as a good sign that Richie’s already making jokes.

 

Richie isn’t super talkative when they get to the bar--oddly, the same one where the anniversary party was months ago--but what he does say speaks volumes.  “I don’t even know if her asking me for money bothers me so much as the fact that she’s never considered anything I did before this job a success.  I mean, when I was a freelancer, it didn’t matter that I was working my fucking ass off making it work and never asked her or my dad for a goddamn thing.  None of that was a real accomplishment to her.  Neither is this, either, I guess.  It’s just a reason for her to want something from me.”  Richie finishes his first scotch--a really nice one he’s not paying for at all, at Eddie’s insistence.  

Eddie can’t help but wonder if this is at the core of why they’ve been drawn to each other, he and Richie: neither of them had parents who were capable of really loving them, not the way they needed to be.  Eddie’s dad died when he was too young to comprehend it, and the version of love his own mother showed him was pretty twisted.  Richie’s aforementioned thing for unattainable people is suddenly thrown into sharp relief. 

He’s tempted to say as much to Richie; he hopes it would help, but it would actually probably just overwhelm and upset him.  Right now, Richie needs empathy and comfort.  

Eddie turns full-body in his stool to face Richie, watching his profile carefully.  He looks oddly young and vulnerable.  “What matters is whether or not you consider yourself successful in your own eyes.  And you clearly know what a big fucking deal it is to go viral.  More than once, mind you.  At the risk of sounding like a drunk sorority girl, you’re a fucking rockstar, Richie.  Objectively a rockstar.”

Richie meets his eyes, but he still looks sad.  “Thanks, Eds.”

“And what the fuck does success matter, anyway?  Are you happy?  Are you a good person?  ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, your heart is exceptional.”

Richie hides his blush by starting on another glass of scotch.  Eddie nurses his Moscow Mule.  “Deja vu, huh?”

Eddie flushes, remembering the anniversary party.  “Yeah.”  He looks over at the other bar across the room, one of the many sites where Richie’d hit on him shamelessly when he’d first started.  “I have to admit: I kind of miss the banter.  What was it you said to the bartender?  ‘Five-foot-three of sexy needs a beverage’?”

Richie plays offended.  “You were so mean to me.”

The words are out of Eddie’s mouth before he can think them through.  “Well, you know, it’s that second grade mentality of pushing someone on the playground when…”  He doesn’t finish the thought.  He knows Richie can finish it for him.

“...when really you have a humongous fucking crush on them and want to get married over chicken nuggets in the cafeteria?”  Richie’s eyes spark in the dim light. 

Eddie leans in.  “I wouldn’t go that far, Tozier.”  He swivels the barstool around, drink in hand, and watches as some people congregate on the dance floor, including a rowdy bachelorette party, complete with horrendous Team Bride t-shirts.  

As if on cue,  the familiar opening whirr of Beyonce’s  _ Drunk in Love _ comes in over the sound system.  Eddie turns, replacing his drink on the bar top, right in Richie’s line of vision.  “Be back in approximately five minutes and twenty-four seconds.”

“Wait, what?”  Richie looks perplexed in Eddie’s periphery, but Eddie doesn’t respond.  Richie doesn’t need an explanation; he has a front row seat to what’s about to happen.

The thing is, Eddie can dance.  Not just, “Wow, you’re good for a white boy” dance or, “I can hold my own in the gay bar” dance; Eddie can  _ fucking dance.   _ He’d first discovered as much in college, one of the first times he’d gone out with his friends--and probably the first time he’d gotten drunk, ever.  Eddie’s known since he was a kid that he has innate rhythm, but he’d never allowed himself to truly indulge until then, and when he had,  _ God _ , he had never felt more powerful, more confident.  He’d been a natural.  He’d even ended up taking sporadic dance classes just to see what he could  _ really _ do.  Eddie’d never had the urge to pursue it in any real way, but he loves having a party trick he can pull out at the drop of a hat.  Like now.

He saunters onto the dance floor and eases into it, starting with just his hips and mouthing the lyrics, but that alone is enough to make Richie’s eyes bug out of his head.  When the bass drops, he quickly gains a bigger audience, hands in his hair and body rolling to the beat.  Two very drunk bridesmaids immediately approach so they can cheer him on and scream the lyrics in each other’s faces.  Eddie gets his shoulders into it, snapping along with the song, happy to dance with anyone and everyone and no one at all.  The girls grab a hand of his each so they can all shout the best line together.  ( _ WE WOKE UP IN THE KITCHEN SAYING HOW THE HELL DID THIS SHIT HAPPEN, OH BABY!) _

Eddie glances over at Richie, who’s still sitting dumbly on his barstool, jaw on the floor and hands clutching either side of his head like a caricature of pure shock. 

That’s when Eddie starts dancing in earnest, several women taking their turns with him, and then, at one point, some guy who’s clearly straight--and here with his girlfriend--but who somehow couldn’t be happier to have Eddie grinding his ass into his front.  Eddie hears Richie shout, “Gateway gay!” over the music.

By that point, Eddie’s had enough.  He rushes over to Richie, grabs his hands, and forcefully drags him off the stool and into the center of the dance floor just in time for Jay-Z’s part.  Richie watches Eddie breathlessly as he raps along with the lyrics, arms thrown over Richie’s shoulders so he can move against him.  He can tell Richie’s not quite as seasoned as he is, so he goes easy on him, doing subtle little body rolls and not expecting him to do anything in return but stand there looking entertained.  

The guy from earlier eventually approaches, cheeks ruddy from intoxication.  He gestures to Eddie but addresses Richie.  “You’re a lucky man, bro!”

Without missing a beat, Richie drops his voice impossibly low, puffing his chest out a little.  “Thanks, bro!”  They wait until the guy’s completely out of earshot before cracking up, Eddie collapsing into Richie’s chest.

“That was amazing,” Eddie huffs into the front of Richie’s shirt, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.  Richie responds by pushing his fingers affectionately through the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck.

_ Shit. _  Eddie’s heart starts pounding.  The reality of it, of Richie being this close to him, of them holding each other like this, suddenly crashes into him.  It feels fiercely inevitable, that something is going to happen between them, any minute now.   

The rhythm of the song slows, nearing its end, and Richie twirls Eddie, then pulls him back in.  Eddie smiles wide, tongue caught between his teeth as he twirls Richie in turn, which necessitates Richie crouching down into a near squat, the spin of his body broken up into awkward baby steps.  He stands tall and pulls Eddie back into him, closer than before, their chests nearly flush.  

Richie lowers his mouth to Eddie’s ear.  “Is this the organic moment you were waiting for?”  

He means the dancing, Eddie realizes.  He rises up on his tiptoes to speak into Richie’s ear, Richie’s fingers warm and firm around his waist.  “I missed your smile.  I had to do it.”

Richie gives him an overwhelmed sigh that Eddie sees rather than hears.  He leans their foreheads together and just looks at him, that one hand still wrapped around his waist, the other light at his throat.  Eddie swallows.  “Eddie,” Richie says, and it sounds like a warning, the beginning of a sentence that ends with,  _ you should probably stop me now if you don’t want this to happen.   _

Eddie’s fingertips play over Richie’s bottom lip just as Beyonce growls,  _ Daddy I want you, right now _ , and Eddie fucking feels it low in his stomach, Richie’s mouth hovering near his like the most tempting beacon he’s ever seen.  He’s so tired of living in  _ inevitable _ .  He wants to live in  _ actual _ .  So he just does it, rises up on his toes again and pulls Richie down that last inch or two until they’re connected at the mouth, feeling the vibration of Richie’s deep sigh, moaning himself as Richie starts kissing back.  His lips aren’t chapped tonight, he realizes; they’re soft and wet and perfect, and  _ fuck you, Beyonce, are you a fucking psychic?  You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? _

Eddie can’t remember right now how this has gone in his fantasies over the last several weeks, but he knows this, tasting Richie, feeling his curls between his fingers, is way fucking better.  He slips his tongue into Richie’s mouth, and Richie pitches forward with a little growl, his jaw working under Eddie’s fingertips and his hands sliding down to ball up Eddie’s shirt at the small of his back.  Richie pulls away suddenly, disrupting the building heat between them.  Eddie’s mouth hangs open, wanting.  

“Are we--” Richie starts.  “What are we…?”

It strikes Eddie that they’re in fucking public and he’s still Richie’s fucking boss.  The odds of someone they know coming in here are, well, not as slim as Eddie would like, but it’s still pretty unlikely.  Still, they really can’t take any chances, and he wants to do this right--as right as he can, anyway.  

Eddie brushes a kiss just under Richie’s jaw, making his eyelids go heavy.  “You wanna get out of here?”  He repeats his refrain from earlier in the night, the meaning now completely changed.  

Richie nods, already grabbing one of his hands and all but yanking him back in the direction of the bar.  It’s a blur of Eddie closing out their tab and Richie calling for a Lyft, the two of them flushed and horribly distracted, barely able to look at each other for fear of making the ill-advised decision to just destroy each other right there on the floor.  

Once they’re in the Lyft, Eddie feels way more settled, risking no seatbelt so he can lean back against Richie’s chest, but Richie’s leg won’t stop jiggling.  Eddie clamps a hand down on it, thumb rubbing back and forth along Richie’s inner thigh.  He turns with an exasperated smile.  “Eight minutes.”

Richie just nods and exhales heavily through his nostrils, sliding his fingers between Eddie’s over his own thigh and sneaking the other between the buttons on Eddie’s coat so it can wrap around his lower stomach, the size of it large enough to nearly cover it completely, a revelation that sends a wicked thrill down Eddie’s spine.  Richie nuzzles under the back of his coat collar, pressing soft, clandestine kisses along his neck, and Eddie has to bite down on his bottom lip when he sneaks his tongue out and starts licking him there.  He squirms, clutching Richie’s thigh harder.  Eddie feels him finally settle once they’re within blocks of Eddie’s place.  Eddie’s pretty sure their driver gives them a knowing glance in the rearview as Richie yoinks him through the car door.  

Eddie’s hands shake as they ascend the stairs to his place, his keys poised and jingling between his fingers.  Richie doesn’t touch him, but Eddie can feel him wanting to, and it’s enough to make him nervous.  He suddenly wishes he were at least a little tipsy; he’s afraid he’s already lost whatever gave him the push to kiss Richie in the bar. 

Apparently it’s a non-issue, though, because Richie is all over him the second he closes the door behind them, flipping him around and pressing him against it, hands already working at the buttons on Eddie’s coat and tearing off their hats, discarding them on the floor.  The force with which Richie pushes Eddie’s coat off his shoulders has him whining into his mouth, his arms suddenly trapped, and Richie forces himself to slow, gently pulling the sleeves down and off until Eddie’s hands are free to give Richie’s coat similar treatment.  Eddie practically salivates at the sight of his own hands uncovering Richie’s broad shoulders.  He can’t wait to be underneath him.

One of Richie’s hands wraps gently around the side of his neck, thumb skating over his chin, and Eddie melts into the door, watching Richie watch him.  Richie presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, and Eddie smiles at the unexpected gesture.  “Are you sure you want to?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods, pulls him closer by his belt, that object of particular fascination, and licks over Richie’s mouth, making his face as soft and wide-eyed as he possibly can.

“Are  _ you _ sure?”  He knows he isn’t playing fair, and he doesn’t fucking care.

Richie pitches forward again, just like in the bar, and lets out a distressed little noise.  “Are you fucking kidding?  You know I’ve wanted to since day one,” he hisses into Eddie’s temple, fingers already untucking his button-down from his jeans and slipping underneath, hovering coldly just above Eddie’s hip bones.  He presses an urgent kiss to his mouth and his thumbs into Eddie’s warm skin, Eddie’s hips coming off the door until they’re flush with Richie’s.  

Eddie’s hands slide up over Richie’s stomach and chest and shoulders, pushing into his hair, getting tangled all too willingly in those curls as Richie’s mouth opens against his and he tastes the burn of whiskey on his tongue.

Richie separates them with an exaggerated wince, rotating his neck.  “I’m going to need a chiropractor just so I can get through making out with you.”

“Well,” Eddie smiles wide, thoroughly aware that he’s being a little shit, and rises up and down on his toes.  “I’m afraid this is as high as I go.”

“Is it?” Richie murmurs, the only warning before he grips the backs of Eddie’s thighs and lifts him off the floor.

Eddie holds on for dear life with all four limbs as Richie carries him into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress himself rather than depositing Eddie on his back, which Eddie finds interesting.  They shuffle together--a little awkwardly, since they refuse to separate their mouths for more than a millisecond--until Richie’s propped up against Eddie’s headboard and Eddie’s happily straddling his thighs.  He rises up on his knees so Richie’s forced to tilt his head all the way back and brushes kisses over his plush, pink mouth, pinker from the last few minutes, fisting the hair at his nape to keep him right where he is.  Richie goes pliant like a captured cat, all but purring as Eddie takes his time tasting him.  His eyes go slightly unfocused as they gaze over Eddie’s features. 

“What?” Eddie smiles.

Richie’s voice is a throaty murmur.  “Nothing.  I’m just enjoying the hell out of myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh.”  Richie’s eyes fixate on Eddie’s mouth until Eddie finally gives him another kiss.  “Are you?”

“What?”

“Enjoying yourself.” 

Eddie watches him carefully, somewhat amused; Richie’s actually asking, like he genuinely doesn’t know what the answer will be.  “Yes.”  He thumbs at Richie’s bottom lip, dragging it down and capturing it between his teeth. 

“You like my mouth, huh?”  It’s way less of a question.  

Eddie nods, thumb still playing at the corner of Richie’s lips.  “I spent practically an entire day staring it at when you first started.”

“Mmnn,” Richie says, letting Eddie taste him with teeth and tongue. 

“You’re being so well-behaved,” Eddie smirks, tugging at Richie’s hair a little harder, thrilled at the moan it urges from the back of his throat.  “I’m impressed.”

“Honestly, I’m about two seconds away from biting you,” Richie confesses quickly, and before Eddie can react, he counts down.  “Two… one.”

He lifts and shuffles Eddie again, this time onto his back so his head’s nearly hanging off the foot of the mattress and Richie’s laid out on top of him, pulling his shirt collar to the side and sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulder.  Eddie lets out a loud whine that would be embarrassing if Richie didn’t feel so fucking good, wrapping his legs around him and encouraging him to move against him.  Richie’s definitely bruising his skin, and the combination of that wet pinch just to the left of his ultra-sensitive neck and Richie rolling his hips against him has Eddie instantly losing his breath.  

Richie cups his cheek and lifts his head, eyes wide.  “Are you okay?”

Eddie’s perplexed for a split second before he remembers Richie’d witnessed him have a serious attack just the day before.  He nods vigorously, and Richie smiles down at him before giving him a sweet kiss.  

“Can I--?” Richie whispers, fingers tripping down to Eddie’s second button, the first one that’s fastened, and Eddie nods vigorously again.  Richie doesn’t waste time getting Eddie’s clothes off, dragging his mouth down his torso the whole way until Eddie’s left with the two halves of his shirt hanging wide open and his jeans pulled down to the middle of his thighs.  

Richie leans back for a second and flicks on Eddie’s bedside lamp before sitting back on his haunches and taking the opportunity to really look at him.  Eddie’s arms are flung over his head, elbows bent and forearms hanging over the foot of the bed.  His heart starts jackhammering in his chest, and he feels a flush rush from his cheeks all the way down his neck.  He feels so embarrassed to be embarrassed, but he hasn’t been on display like this for anyone in years.  Not to mention the added layer of him being Richie’s boss, but that’s the last thing on his mind right now.  

“ _ Jesus _ ,” Richie says, pushing a hand through his hair, dark eyes skittering over Eddie’s black briefs, his bare thighs, his stomach.  “I could come just looking at you right now.”

“You’d better do more than just look at me,” Eddie says, not realizing how fierce he sounds until Richie throws his head back and laughs. 

Eddie laughs, too, glad for the reprieve from his own brain, which has officially started interrupting in its usual shrieky voice, and he’d so much rather be in his body than in his head right now, thanks. 

Richie yanks Eddie’s jeans off completely, throwing them over the side of the bed.  “I was planning on it.”  Eddie’s knees fall open, his legs butterflying.  Richie palms at Eddie’s calves, long fingers pushing up against the hair there.  “But please, keep on telling me what to do.  It’s kind of a turn-on,” Richie raises an eyebrow.  

Eddie can’t tell if he’s joking.  He squirms a little under Richie’s eyes and hands, toes poking restlessly into one of Richie’s thighs as his fingers make their way up and up, until finally the heel of his hand is pressing up against the underside of his dick, long, elegant fingers folding over the shape of him in his briefs.  Eddie’s eyes fall shut, his brow furrowing as he lets out a deep breath.  

“You’re so gorgeous,” Richie says, and it’s like nothing he’s ever said to him, not even in those initial days; it’s raw and naked and honest, and Eddie wants to have a fucking recording of it to listen to over and over for the rest of his life.  

Eddie’s hips come off the bed and he wraps his legs around Richie again.  “Come back,” he whispers, pulling him down, one arm slipping down from above his head to yank at Richie’s t-shirt.  They slide together, Richie’s hand replaced by the friction of his own cock, just his jeans and Eddie’s briefs between them now, and it feels too fucking good.  Richie curls his tongue into Eddie’s mouth as they start rocking together, and Eddie nearly tears Richie’s shirt off over his head, making his hair even wilder than usual.  Eddie reaches down, fumbling for the button on Richie’s jeans and missing.  He tugs weakly at his belt, distracted and needy.  “Take these off, I want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Richie says, tearing himself somewhat reluctantly away after one final, penetrating kiss, shucking his belt and scrambling out of his jeans.  It’s not a graceful move--sort of awkward and teenagerish--but it makes his sheer eagerness palpable, and Eddie finds it endearing as hell.  

The corners of Eddie’s mouth raise as he looks his fill at Richie, too, endless planes of lean muscle under snowy white skin and dustings of dark hair.  The trail leading underneath his purple boxer briefs is tantalizing.  Eddie reaches for it instantly, grazing with his fingertips.  Richie inhales sharply.  “Don’t pull on that,” he warns.

“...Or what?”

“Or else the night’ll be over before it’s even begun, my dear.”

Eddie giggles, shaking his head.  “Seriously?”  He creeps his fingers up to the hair at Richie’s chest.  “What about here?”

Richie smiles, still standing beside the bed, humoring Eddie.  “Not quite as hard-wired to my dick, but still really good.”

“Noted,” Eddie murmurs, tugging experimentally on Richie’s chest hair, making him fold over with an adorable shiver.  

He grabs at Eddie’s hand and climbs back over him, pressing his wrist into the mattress beside his head, poised to grab for the other if need be.  “Now, how do I get  _ you _ to behave yourself?  That is the question.”

Eddie arches into him.  “Maybe I’m not interested in behaving myself tonight.”  

Richie’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.  “Wow.  That’s it.  Turn over.”  He curls both hands around one of Eddie’s sides and tries to tip him, but Eddie holds on, resisting with a laugh.

“No!  Don’t spank me!”

Richie tickles his sides and lower stomach, weakening him just enough to get the leverage needed to flip him over and start patting his ass playfully with both hands.  Eddie giggles and shrieks, realizing how short-sighted he’s been to have not factored fun into his Richie fantasies.  “Any more lip from you, and you’ll have to stand in the corner with your underwear over your head for the rest of the night.”  He snaps the waistband of Eddie’s briefs. 

“Oh God,” Eddie winces.  “My mom used to make me stand in the corner whenever I did something wrong.”

“ _ Oh no _ ,” Richie laughs, then immediately launches a campaign to get the extremely unwelcome images of Eddie’s mom out of his head, which mostly entails listing hot male celebrities in compromising positions.  Some of Richie’s suggestions are downright bizarre, but they’re enough to pull Eddie back to the present--though he’s far more focused on Richie’s hands petting down his bare back and sides than on what he's saying.  Richie takes in his softened expression.  “Are we all good now?”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.  

He can’t quite see Richie, but he can hear him smile before he leans down and starts mouthing slow, soft kisses along his shoulders and down his spine.  The only sound is Richie’s mouth against his skin and Eddie’s sighs until Richie whispers, “So, how long has it been for you?  Are you ready to tell me now?”

“Years,” Eddie says. 

“That’s fucking  _ criminal _ , Eds.”  Richie scrapes his teeth gently over Eddie’s side, making him shiver.  “Remember how I said you were depriving the world?”

“...Yeah?”

“I didn’t know the half of it ‘til I saw you dance.”

Eddie smiles shyly, glad his face is at least partly obscured by the bed--and the crook of his arm.  

Richie continues, mouth moving against the small of Eddie’s back, practically tattooing the words there.  “I mean, you make me crazy at work every day, but… if I didn’t get to touch you tonight, I was going to scream.”

“Me too,” Eddie admits, squirming a little--or maybe a lot, judging from the way Richie’s hands go firm at his sides, holding him in place.  He feels Richie’s face pressing into him, right between his cheeks, teeth pulling at the cotton of his briefs, hot breath making his hips press down into the mattress.  

“Do you like this?  Here?” Richie asks, tongue flattening down and up over his briefs.

Eddie thinks his underwear can’t possibly taste good to Richie, but  _ God _ , does it feel good to have him taste it.  He never thought he’d be into being eaten out, never in his fucking life, but  _ Jesus _ does he want Richie to do it to him right now.  He’d fucking  _ die  _ for it right now.  “I haven’t really--” he starts, quick and breathy, and Richie sounds way too thrilled about that, like if Eddie decides he isn’t into it after all, he might stomp his feet and throw a fucking tantrum. 

“Do you want me to?”  Richie’s voice is urgent if muffled.  “Because I really,  _ really _ want to.”

Eddie’s eyes are closed and his voice is tight.  “Yes.   _ Please. _ ”

He feels Richie’s fingertips immediately hook into the inside of his waistband, gently pulling down, allowing Eddie to shift up to make room to get them off.  His briefs bunch up and travel all the way down his legs, guided gently down and off by Richie’s hands, and disappear over the side of the bed with the rest of their clothes.  

Eddie settles with his head in the crook of his arm again, hands folded together by his forehead, heart pounding at the silence behind him.  He nearly jumps when Richie’s hand lays against one asscheek, thumb dragging down the cleft, curious.  For someone who was practically begging to do this to Eddie, Richie sure is taking his sweet fucking time getting to it.  Eddie’s about to say as much, when he feels Richie’s other hand at the back of his thigh, urging it up with a gentle push, Eddie’s knee bending at almost a ninety-degree angle, then past it, opening him up so he’s totally on display.  

Eddie’s face is burning hot.  He squirms.  Richie finally shifts behind him, making the mattress dip, and then he feels Richie’s breath right there, right on his skin, both hands gripping him on either side now.  He’s so small in Richie’s hands, it’s enough to make him throb.  Discomfort creeps in, maybe a little shame, too, when he feels Richie licking at the juncture where his thigh meets his ass, but he pushes past it, right past shame to need when he feels Richie’s tongue flatten up against him, right up the center.  He lets out a breathy, shuddering moan that Richie answers by gripping his sides and pulling him back against his face, tongue pulsing and teasing.  Eddie grips the edge of the mattress with both hands, feeling Richie’s knees bump into his legs and realizing vaguely that Richie must be folding himself nearly in half in order to fit on his fucking bed and do this.  

He lifts his bent knee even higher, opening himself up more, and he can feel Richie laugh breathily against him.  He reaches down and tugs on a chunk of Richie’s hair, hard, his voice high.  “Don’t stop, Richie, please.”

Richie growls, fingers pressing into his skin, and tongue working up to a fast and furious pace, dipping inside of him now.  Eddie can feel himself opening up, his dick leaking onto his stomach and the duvet.  

It isn’t long before Richie hits a rhythm that makes him shake.  “Ohgodohgodohgodoh _ god.  Wait.   _ Wait.”

Richie stops, head resting on Eddie’s thigh as he breathes heavily.  One hand drifts down from its grip at his side to palm his ass, keeping him just a little stimulated.  “Thought you said not to stop,” he teases.

“I don’t want to come yet,” Eddie explains, voice still on edge.  

Richie lifts up and lays out flat over Eddie’s back, arms folding over Eddie’s and hands covering his where they’re still curled over the edge of the bed.  “But you taste so damn good.”  He kisses Eddie’s shoulder, then his cheek, mouth hovering next to his ear.  “How do you want to come?”

Eddie starts turning, and Richie makes room for him to turn over.  He reaches up to play with Richie’s hair and smiles into his ear.  “On top of you, you fucking me from underneath.  Do you want me to ride you?”  He knows the answer, though, knows from the comical full-body shiver that goes through Richie and the way he sinks his teeth into the other side of Eddie’s neck, the side he didn’t get before.  

He pulls back, smiling down at him.  “You’re a goddamn menace, Kaspbrak.”  

Eddie lifts a shoulder in faux apology, biting his lip.  “Lie back.”

Richie does, propped up against the headboard, legs out long in front of him, stretching nearly the length of Eddie’s mattress.  They watch each other, Eddie’s eyes glancing over Richie’s boxer briefs again, the shape of him long and unmistakably hard.  Richie palms himself lazily, watching Eddie’s naked form as he collects the necessities from bedside and dresser drawers.  

He tosses a small bottle of lube and a condom next to Richie and climbs on, straddling him.  Richie reels him in by the neck for a kiss, then reaches for the lube, but Eddie grabs it from him, pushing him back down with a palm to his chest.  

“No, let me do this part.  You just watch.”

Richie lets out another one of those distressed noises again and purposely makes his voice break on an overwhelmed, “Okay.”  He slips his underwear off and grips himself hard as Eddie scoots back, reaches down, and starts slowly fingering himself, eyes taking in the full picture.  Eddie's mouth waters, taking all of him in now, too. 

Eddie’s not only a good dancer but he’s still pretty limber, so he’s good at this--and knows he looks good doing it.  He displays himself to give Richie the best possible view, legs falling open wide, two fingers already down to the second knuckle.  

“ _ Fuck _ .”  Richie licks his lips, then bites his bottom one to shit.  “I’m not going to last.”

“Be patient,” Eddie chides, then presses in deep, making himself throw his head back and moan.  

Richie forcefully removes his hand from himself, gripping the duvet.  “You’re not helping.”

Eddie laughs, finally showing mercy by removing his fingers and straddling Richie again, arms thrown over his shoulders as Richie picks up the condom and eyeballs the wrapper.

“I hope you accounted for my massive girth in your selection.”

Eddie smacks his shoulder, smiling.  “Oh my God.  And you call  _ me _ a menace.”

“This’ll do,” Richie says mock-approvingly, and Eddie shakes his head, still smiling as they both ready themselves.  

It’s a little alarming how comfortable so much of this is, almost like they’ve been here before.  

Richie actually gestures to his dick and says, “Hop on, cowboy,” and Eddie collapses into his shoulder, laughing so hard that he almost cries.  

“Thank you for ruining the mood entirely.”

Richie is quick to protest.  “I didn’t... ruin it  _ entirely _ .”  He pulls Eddie closer and presses a slow, wet kiss underneath his ear.  “Did I?”

Eddie lets out a little moan.  “No, that helps.  Keep doing that.”  Richie does, covering his neck and shoulder, mouth sliding over to his throat, making Eddie’s head drop back.  “Okay.  Shit.  Now,” Eddie says, reaching down and gripping Richie, aligning them, and sinking slowly, carefully onto him.  

Richie’s arms wrap around him, pulling him close, his breath shaky.  Eddie thinks of the last few days, everything that’s happened, the ways they’ve both taken care of each other, and feels an unbearable surge of affection for him.  He feels the burn and slight pain of having Richie inside of him, but he’d try to get even closer to him if he could.  

Richie’s fingers pet along his shoulder blades, mouth pressing kisses along the other side of his neck, over the bruise he left earlier.  “ _ Fuck _ , you’re like a vice.”

“Sweet talker.”

“...You okay, Eds?”  Richie mumbles it into his skin.  

“Yeah, sweetheart, just give me a sec.”  The endearment is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he feels Richie freeze a little before he drops another kiss to his shoulder, a chaster one.  

“...Okay.”  Richie pulls back so their eyes meet.  “You feel  _ really  _ good, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

Richie nods, careful not to jostle them.  “ _ Yeah _ .  Like cotton candy.”

Eddie smirks.  “For a grown man, you have a bizarre preoccupation with sweets.”  Without warning, he lifts a little and starts pulsing his hips.  

Richie’s forehead drops to his shoulder.  “Fuck.”  He grips Eddie’s hips, sucking in air.  “Fuck, Eddie.”

Before long, they’re rocking into each other hard, Eddie lifting up with his thighs and bearing down, Richie’s hips rolling up to meet him, the both of them panting, Richie’s face buried in Eddie’s neck.

Richie is all profanity and no coherence whatsoever, and Eddie is almost totally silent.  He could die, Richie feels so good inside of him.  

“I want to make you come, Richie,” he breathes into his ear. 

“You first,” Richie manages, gripping his ass with both hands, changing the angle slightly, and going as brutally hard as he can from underneath, making Eddie’s jaw drop.

“Right there, right there, oh God.”  He tangles one hand in Richie’s hair, the other clutching his shoulder, fucking down onto him hard and fast, riding that spot for all it’s worth.  

There’s been too much build-up, and the build-up has been too much.  Eddie comes with a high, desperate moan, mouth open against the side of Richie’s face, and Richie follows soon after, manhandling Eddie like a rag doll and growling his name amongst a litany of curses.  

They stay like that for a while, Richie pressing more languid, satiated kisses to his flushed skin, until Eddie pulls Richie’s head back so they can kiss on the mouth.  He pulls away almost instantaneously with a wince.  “I can’t believe I just allowed ass-to-mouth in my bed.  I’m horrified.”  He’s still smiling like a fucked out idiot, though. 

Richie looks soft and pliant.  “You were definitely not horrified when I was doing it.”  His brow furrows in imitation.  “ _ Don’t stop, Richie, please _ .”

Eddie moves to hit him, but Richie intercepts his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm, then to his mouth again, despite Eddie’s half-hearted groans of disgust.  Richie pushes his tongue insistently into Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie squeals, forcing them apart again.  “Come on, we both need to use all the mouthwash I have now.”

“I like being here,” Richie protests, but it comes out a little too gentle.

Eddie gives him a fond look and kisses his cheek.  “We can take a shower together.  Get clean, so we can snuggle.”

Richie loosens his grip on him, so they can disentangle from each other, Eddie taking the used condom from Richie and disposing it, then reaching for his hand and pulling him out of bed.  Richie looks beautifully wrecked.  Eddie can only imagine how he looks.

“I love snuggling,” Richie says as he follows him to the bathroom.  “Especially with cute boys.”  He smacks Eddie’s ass. 

“ _ Ow,  _ haven’t you abused my ass enough tonight?”

“But it was the best kind of abuse, right?”  Richie waggles his eyebrows.  

He can’t stop smiling now, either, and remembering how morose he’d been earlier in the night, Eddie can’t help feeling triumphant. 

Eddie makes quick work of washing out his mouth and brushing his teeth, then stands behind Richie, wrapping his arms around his chest and watching as he does the same, kissing his shoulders all the while.  

He takes a quick look at himself in the mirror before they climb into the shower together, biting back a smile at the marks on his neck and shoulders, the faint sheen to his skin, the mess of his hair.  As the hot water rushes over the both of them, the steam making the cold from outside a distant memory, Eddie’s fatigue hits him like a freight train.  He can barely keep his eyes open for Richie’s slow kisses, though he can also almost feel himself stirring again.  Richie looks stupidly fucking sexy with wet hair and eyelashes. 

“Are we going to work tomorrow?” Richie asks, his voice deep and rumbly as it echoes along the shower walls.  “Because I’d so much rather spend it combining our current activity with the activity we just did.”

Eddie smiles, pawing through Richie’s wet chest hair.  “That sounds amazing.”  He doesn’t want to think about the reality of work, not even of calling in sick to work, actually. 

“We’re both viral video rockstars now.  We can afford a day.”

Eddie can feel the skepticism crossing his own face.  

“We can do some stuff from home,” Richie says, trying to pacify him. 

“You and I both know that if we stay here, we’re not getting anything done.” 

“Oh, I’ll get something done,” Richie says lightly--then grabs his ass with both hands.  

Eddie rises up on his tiptoes and sucks on Richie’s bottom lip, making him moan appreciatively.  “Can we decide in the morning?”

Richie scrunches his face up adorably.  “Yeah, I guess so.”  He pushes a hand through Eddie’s hair as Eddie reaches around him to turn the water off.  “Is this how it’s going to be now?  Me totally unable to say no to you, ever?  That can’t be healthy.”

Eddie’s on a mission to keep his brain from going down any unwanted paths, not yet, and being only minutes post-orgasm helps, but his heart can’t help snagging on the longevity implied in Richie’s comment.  He pushes the idea away and the images that come with it, then yanks open the shower curtain and dries Richie off with a thick, fluffy towel before pushing one through his own hair and wrapping it around himself.  

When they finally slip into bed beside each other--Eddie’s duvet thrown off and stuffed unceremoniously into the hamper beforehand, of course--they’re both silent for a long minute, the reality of what’s just happened settling over both of them.  Eddie’s mind races.  There’s the fear of what this is between them, what Richie thinks it is and what he wants it to be, but before that, there’s the very real fear of how the fuck they’re going to handle this from a professional standpoint.

It’s almost as if Richie can hear his thoughts.  He wraps a long arm around him and pulls him into his side, close, tangling their legs together and pressing a kiss to his temple.  Eddie still doesn’t have any answers, but the questions are much easier to face in Richie’s arms. 

Then Richie disrupts the quiet.  “So.  Are you going to incorporate all this into my three-month performance review on Friday?”

Eddie pulls the pillow from underneath his head and presses it into Richie’s face. 


	13. Chapter 13

It’s been a long, long time since the  _ inside _ of Eddie’s ass hurt.  But that’s definitely the case when he wakes up the next morning.  His bed is otherwise empty, and his apartment is dead silent.  He closes his eyes, his heart clenching horribly.  Maybe he’ll just sleep all day--maybe all fucking week.  “Shit,” he says quietly. 

How did Richie manage to sneak out without waking him up?  Eddie’d spent most of the night sleeping open-mouthed against the side of his neck.  He’d have felt it if Richie’d jostled him, right?  And Eddie’s always been an incredibly light sleeper, especially with someone in bed next to him, someone new no less.  Then again, they’d just gotten back from traveling, on top of an already exhausting couple of months.  And his body had gotten quite the workout last night.  It still feels pleasantly used (apart from the inside of his ass-- _ ow _ ).

He flushes, the memory of it a little shameful knowing Richie’d decided to split in the middle of the fucking night.

He rolls over to his bedside table and plucks up his phone, scrolling somewhat frantically through work updates to get to any texts that might have come through.  “Come on, you shithead,” he says, addressing the phone, not an imagined Richie, though if he did decide to leave him without so much as an explanation, Eddie’s got no shortage of words he’d like to call him.  

Just then, a muted sizzle comes from the kitchen, followed by an unmistakable stage whisper of, “ _ Ow, fuck! _ ”  Eddie collapses back into the pillows with a relieved, excited smile, his body already thrumming, silently reaching for Richie from two rooms away.  This is, of course, immediately followed by dread; how is he going to play this morning?  How’s Richie going to play it?  What the hell are they  _ doing _ ?  Eddie stretches from the tips of his fingers to his toes, eager to avoid life in general. 

He eases quietly out of bed and sneaks over to his dresser, overthinking how to present himself, then realizes how fucking stupid that is and how transparent it would be; Richie  _ knows _ him, has seen him at his worst.  Still, he hasn’t seen him first thing in the morning, not without Eddie sneaking off to the bathroom to check himself out and clean himself up beforehand.  

They’d both slept in their underwear, the silent decision passing between them after their shower that they hadn’t wanted to give up being skin to skin, and Eddie’s flannel sheets were enough to keep them both warm.  Their clothing from yesterday is in a neat, folded pile on top of Eddie’s dresser, which makes him smile.  He slides open his top drawer and digs for an old pair of white dance shorts, ditching his briefs and slipping them on, making sure the clingy material’s resting in all the right places.  He almost wants to top it off by slipping on Richie’s shirt from the day before, but that feels way too coupley.  He decides he’s not willing to risk it, opting for a soft, old periwinkle henley, pulling the ends of the sleeves down over the heels of his hands and taking a deep breath before padding down the hall and into the kitchen.  

“So you have a thing for burning yourself on my stove, too, huh?” Eddie calls before reaching the threshold.  

Richie’s standing there over his burners in his boxer briefs and glasses and nothing else, an array of vegetables laid out on a cutting board, along with an open carton of eggs, milk, and pretty much the entire contents of Eddie’s refrigerator.  His eyes are fixated on the heel of his hand, still surveying the damage.  Richie sucks on the skin with a smile.  “Don’t underestimate me, Eds.  I’m an excellent cook.  How dare you.”

Eddie blinks, the image of it almost too much.  He can already feel himself tumbling assfirst into that headspace where he’s picturing a future, a relationship, a partnership--love--and he can’t believe how fucking stupid he is, how could he have let any of this happen?

Then Richie’s eyes finally fall on him, the sizzle of butter in the pan punctuating the silence.  His mouth falls open and just hangs there, and Eddie crosses his arms, leaning one hip against the wall.  

Okay, so he’s _ totally _ transparent but it’s fucking worth it for the look on Richie’s face. 

“Wowowowowow, get over here,” he says.  “Right now.”

But before Eddie can shift his weight to move, Richie’s dropping to his knees and shuffling across the kitchen floor to him so he can rub his face against his shorts (just the hip, not the crotch, not yet, anyway).  Eddie reaches over him with an amused smile to turn off the burner, and Richie follows his movement, nosing at where the bottom hem meets his thigh.  “Just making sure you don’t burn down my apartment,” Eddie says, his hand finding a resting place in Richie’s hair, pushing it back from his face.

Richie looks up at him from his spot on the floor with a goofy, adorable smile.  “Hi.”  He sounds a little breathless.  He lifts the bottom of Eddie’s shirt and sucks a sweet kiss just above his navel.

Eddie giggles and inches away, trying to pull his shirt back down.  “Oh no, but I’m gross.”

“You can’t just walk in here in these,” Richie snaps the bottom hem of the shorts, “and expect me to not maul you.”  

Eddie relents, propping himself up against the wall as Richie nuzzles back under his shirt, and twirls a dark curl around his finger.  

“Besides, I’m gross, too, so we cancel each other out.  I didn’t do any covert primping before you woke up, I promise.”

Eddie glances down, watching Richie’s gorgeous mouth work over his skin, then forces himself to divert his eyes, otherwise he’ll end up pushing Richie all the way to the floor and ending up with an even sorer ass.  “So we’ll just explode into a collective ball of grease?”

Richie raises his eyes and pets Eddie’s shirt back into place.  “Exploding can definitely be arranged.”

Eddie cups Richie’s chin, his thumb pushing through the beginnings of stubble.  “Do you have a fifteen year-old cousin somewhere that I should thank for this dirty talk?”

“You said you missed the banter.”  Richie’s hands drift to Eddie’s sides, fingers pushing up underneath the hem of his shorts and drifting back, curious and gentle on Eddie’s skin, lighting a slow fire there.  “Besides, I didn’t hear any complaints last night, dollface.”  Eddie shoves Richie’s shoulder, but Richie bounces back, rising to his feet and giving him a dizzying kiss on the way up.  He lowers his eyes to the space between them, his voice low and intimate.  “Okay, maybe I did a little covert primping.  But it’s your fault.  You messed up my hair real good during our bedtime shenanigans.”

Eddie’s hands are circled around Richie’s where they brace against both sides of his face.  “You’re talking a lot.  I mean, more than usual, even.”

“I feel like a new man,” Richie purrs, then nudges his nose into Eddie’s cheek.  “I spent some quality time in the most adorable guy’s bed last night.”

Eddie inhales, fighting a blushing smile--and mostly failing.  “Oh yeah?  How was it?”

Richie gives an elaborate shrug.  “My dick reached nirvana.  I ascended to a higher plane.  No big deal.”

“Sounds great, but…”  Eddie sucks his teeth playfully.  “...I dunno.  I think you could do better.  He probably made you do most of the work, huh?”

Richie’s smile is huge.  “Well, it had been a while for him, so I had to spoil him a little.”  His big, warm hands come to rest on the juncture of Eddie’s neck and shoulders, long thumbs playing at his collar bones where they peek out from underneath his henley.  “Honestly?  I’d keep him in bed for a whole week if I could.  We’d only stop to eat, rehydrate, and maybe pee.”

Eddie’s horrified that he’s actually considering taking a vacation just to fuck Richie for a week.

“He’s so fucking adorable, now that I’m allowed to touch him, I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.”  Richie presses him into the wall with his body and dips down to nip at his neck.  “Every inch of him is perfect.”

Eddie covers his red face and buries it in Richie’s shoulder with a groan, ecstatic and embarrassed.

“Y’know, he came without me even having to touch him,” Richie whispers into his ear.  “And the sounds he made?  So,  _ so _ hot.”  He pulls back, forcing Eddie to meet his eyes briefly before pressing another heartfelt kiss to his mouth, drawing a hum from Eddie, and leans their foreheads together, reminding Eddie of how this all started.  “Did you have a good time?” he whispers, genuinely asking.

“You know I did,” Eddie whispers back without hesitation.  

“Please tell me we’re calling in sick.”  Richie’s hands are warm and sweet and  _ everywhere _ , coasting down Eddie’s sides, up either side of his spine and hooking over his shoulders from the back, raising goosebumps despite their heat.  “ _ Please _ .”  He kisses him.  “Please.”  He kisses him again.  “Ple--I’m not going to stop until you answer.”  Another kiss.  “Please.”

Eddie presses three fingers over Richie’s mouth before he can lean in again, desperate to enjoy what’s happening rather than analyze it.  (Is he getting the same treatment all of Richie’s fucks do?  Does any of this actually mean anything?)  “Wait.”  Richie purses a kiss to his fingertips, and he laughs helplessly.  “Can we have an actual conversation about this?”  Richie watches, waiting for him to continue.  Eddie’s hand drifts down to cover his heart.  “I don’t mean about you and me, that’s not what I’m asking, but… in terms of work.”

“...Okay.”  Richie steps back in front of the burners, turning the one with the pan back on, and pulls Eddie in front of him.  “But can you stand right here while we do?”  He wraps one long arm around his waist, the other working surprisingly deftly at cracking eggs into a bowl.  The hand at Eddie’s middle creeps under his henley to palm his stomach, pinky finger dipping just under the waistband of his shorts.  

Eddie’s stomach flips.  He pulls Richie’s hand back up to safer territory.  “Keep this here, otherwise I can’t think straight.”

“When can you ever think straight?  Ba-dump-bump.”

Eddie sinks back into him a little and pinches his forearm.  There’s a long silence as Richie hooks his chin over Eddie’s shoulder and works at sauteing vegetables and cooking scrambled eggs.  “What we did last night was pretty reckless,” Eddie says finally.  He can feel Richie stiffen behind him.  Eddie reaches up and back to palm his cheek, pressing a kiss to the other.  “I don’t regret it.  I just wish we had talked about it beforehand.”

“Mm hmm,” Richie says quietly.  

“I don’t know about you, but I  _ love _ my job.  And I really love managing a team, more than anything.”

Richie instantly removes himself from Eddie, hands flailing, unsure whether or not he should keep cooking breakfast.  “Eddie, I’m a grownass man; you don’t have to give me a long speech or anything.  Just say you’re not willing to risk it--”

“ _ Hey. _ ”  He forcibly turns Richie away from the stove so he can kiss him again.  “Will you let me finish, please?”  Richie nods, not meeting his eyes.  “What I was  _ going to _ say is that we both love our jobs and we don’t know what this is--and we don’t have to, not yet.  So why don’t we just agree to be super discreet about it while we’re figuring that out?  I mean, I haven’t even looked into our company policy.  I don’t even know what our options are at this point.”  He ducks down to find Richie’s gaze.  “What do you think?”

Richie actually blushes and nods.  “I like it.”

Eddie kisses him again for good measure, a little more forcefully this time, hands pushing through Richie’s hair, leaving the both of them a little breathless.  “I’ll tell Michelle I’m sick.  I assume your boss knows not to expect you either?”

“I hope so,” Richie says lightly, smiling shyly as they resume their former position and Richie finishes making breakfast.

After they eat, they spend most of the rest of the day on Eddie’s couch, wrapped in blankets, watching TV, and making sure neither of them looks at their phones to check work e-mail--or the most up-to-date stats on their video.  The most common tactic for ensuring this is Richie or Eddie initiating an intense makeout session, which ends in them bringing each other off with mouths and hands at least twice.

Bev, who’d overheard Eddie’s out sick, texts him insisting on bringing him hot and sour soup from his favorite sushi place on her way home, and Eddie, knowing she can’t take no for an answer, makes sure Richie’s out of the apartment at least an hour before he expects her.  

Richie doesn’t get back into his clothes from last night until two minutes before his agreed departure time, and comes back to ring Eddie’s doorbell twice after leaving under the auspices of having forgotten something (when really, he’s come back to press Eddie against the nearest wall and kiss him just one more time--both times).  

When Bev arrives, Eddie’s still on the couch, covered neck to toe in blankets, a mug of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him.  

“ _ Aw baby _ ,” she says at first, rushing over to hand him his soup and dote on him.  It’s when she’s petting his hair that she stops, taking in the room and narrowing her eyes.

Eddie’s heart races.  He’d cleaned  _ everything _ before she’d arrived, including himself.  But somehow…

“I have a hunch,” she says.  

“What?” he says, though he can already feel his face betraying him.  He’s a decent liar, but the thing is, he doesn’t want to lie to his best friend, not about this.  

“...I didn’t see Richie in the office today, either.”  She watches him, a smile starting to curl her lips.  

“Really?” he says, failing miserably at playing dumb but not quite caring.  He’s ready to bust.

Bev’s eyes widen.  Eddie pulls the blanket up over his head, hiding his face.  She suddenly lets out a loud, totally incoherent squeal, the force of which Eddie can swear makes his entire living room shake.  He feels her leap onto him, pressing him into the couch.  “You’re not sick at all, you little slut!”

“Shut up!  You can’t tell anyone!” Eddie shouts, feeling all of thirteen years old and loving it.  

“I am so motherfucking happy for you!”  He feels Bev’s arms wrap tightly around him, and only hopes he can keep up a better charade for everyone else at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends! So sorry for the delay; I'm doing a play right now, so life has been pretty hectic for the last couple of weeks. Hope you enjoyed it, and thank you, as always, for the love. <3


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning at work leaves Eddie equal parts trepidatious (for obvious reasons) and excited (to see Richie again).  His time at home getting ready is spent both going over in painstaking detail exactly how he’s going to interact with Richie in the office--and choosing an outfit that’s sure to make him go quietly insane.  They haven’t communicated at all since Richie’s final departure from his apartment the night before, so Eddie hopes he knows how to behave himself when it really counts, even as he also secretly hopes to make it super fucking hard for him.

He may be overdoing it a bit, choosing to don what Bev calls his Power Gay attire: a light grey slim fit three-piece suit with a tasteful pale yellow plaid pattern and no tie.  Eddie has to get most of his stuff tailored, but he’d given this suit a lot of extra attention (and money), to the point where it looks like it was made for him.  He’d finally gotten his long-overdue haircut the night before, too, so he looks extra tidy.  

Eddie gets into his office bright and early as usual to find that Bev’s already dropped off a coffee on his desk.  He sits and boots up his computer, chuckling when he notices the name Starbucks inscribed in Sharpie on the side of his cup: _Sexy Beast._  He takes up his own Sharpie from his pen holder and scribbles a big black block over it in anticipation of his morning meetings, the first of which is a huge, company-wide “Look at all the great things we’ve done this year--but here’s all the stuff we still need to improve on” thing.  

Richie might be there.  

Although considering he skipped work yesterday, he might opt to play catch-up instead.  Eddie would typically do the same, but his boss’ words from months before are still echoing around his skull: _I really would like to see you getting more involved and setting an example._

Uh, does getting more involved mean blowing your direct report on your couch with the _Golden Girls_ playing in the background?

Eddie shakes his head and takes a final look at his reflection in his office mirror before striding down to the big conference room on the main floor.  He takes a quick glance around.  It’s already crowded, standing room only.  No Richie, though Bev managed to nab a seat at the front.  He raises his Starbucks cup to her with a little smile and she blows him a kiss in return before yawning into the crook of her arm.  Eddie smiles to himself as he settles into a stretch of wall at the back of the room.  He’s ready for the weekend, too.  He directs his attention to his personal phone, triaging his Gmail--which, at this point, is mostly junk--while the big wigs’ executive assistants set up slides at the front.

About a minute after the meeting officially starts, Richie slips in with Mike and Ben.  Eddie pointedly ignores his gaze, suddenly nervous.  Is he going to have to recalibrate his own behavior every fucking time he comes into the office now?  Not a moment later, he’s forced to look back at Richie, whose lanky body is bowed from choking on his coffee.  Ben claps him on the back while he and Mike chuckle amiably.  

Eddie glances at Bev.  She’s biting her lip, clearly holding back laughter.  Her thumb works at the screen of her phone.  Eddie’s personal phone buzzes.

**_Big Red_ **

_I can’t believe you’re wearing POWER GAY, you sadist.  You can’t let the poor boy live, can you?_

As he’s typing out a response to her ( _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ ), a text from Richie comes in.  It’s the first time he’s ever contacted Eddie on his non-work phone.  In fact, Eddie’d only given him the number for emergencies after hours or on weekends.  And Eddie only had Richie’s non-work number because he’d insisted on entering it into Eddie’s phone in a fit of extreme flirtation before he’d gone permanent.   _God, those were simpler times_ , Eddie thinks.

**_Dickchardo_ **

_I’m sorry, I’m going to need to work from home today._

Eddie looks up at Richie, who’s staring back with wide, expectant eyes.  Eddie smiles a little, mouthing _what?_  Richie rolls his eyes, long thumbs working at his phone, which he holds somewhat protectively close to his chest.

_Bzzt._

**_Dickchardo_ **

_How do you expect anyone, let alone me, to get any work done with you wearing THAT?_

Eddie blushes.  Before he can reply, his phone buzzes furiously, three more times.

**_Dickchardo_ **

_I mean, holy shit._

This is followed by three fire emojis and an extended keymash.

Eddie raises an eyebrow at Richie from across the room, then replies: _You’re lucky I didn’t wear the shorts._

**_Dickchardo_ **

_This is worse than the shorts.  You look so put together.  All I want to do is mess you up._

Emboldened--by Richie’s reaction, by the last two days in general--Eddie replies, _What are you doing tonight?_

Then he takes off his suit jacket, leaving just the vest and button-down underneath, and rolls up his sleeves.

This prompts another keymash from Richie, in all caps, three coffin emojis, and:

**_Dickchardo_ **

_Do you have your inhaler handy?_

Miraculously, Eddie gets through the rest of his day, including Richie’s performance review, which Richie passes with flying colors, of course.  He’s grateful that he’s required to have Cara in that meeting, too, since he isn’t sure he and Richie could have handled being alone in a room together so soon after, well, everything.  It’s way easier to put on his boss hat and perform with other people around.

They plan to meet at Richie’s at eight, leaving work separately to avoid suspicion and giving Eddie plenty of time to grab an overnight bag, though Richie insists that he keep the suit on.  

Richie looks gorgeous when he answers the door, in dark skinny jeans and a dark green sweater, though the ravenous look in his eyes probably puts the ensemble over the top, if Eddie’s honest with himself.  He gently grabs Eddie’s wrist and pulls him inside, dropping his bag by the door and slamming it shut.  Richie steps forward until their bodies are flush, trapping Eddie’s body between the door and his own, and curls his tongue into his mouth, hands pushing through the fuzz at Eddie’s nape.  “You got a haircut,” he smiles, nosing down Eddie’s neck.  

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, fingertips hooking inside the waistband of Richie’s jeans, his head falling back against the door.

“I love it.  More Eddie Neck for me.”

Eddie giggles.  “ _Eddie Neck?_ Not sure how I feel about that.  That’s weird.”

Richie’s hands meet at the small of Eddie’s back, pulling him even closer, knee nudging the sides of his winter coat apart and pressing right up between his thighs.  He sinks his teeth into Eddie’s skin.

Eddie gasps, one hand coming up to clutch at Richie’s curls.  “ _Shit_.  I take it back.”  He rocks into Richie’s knee with a little moan, losing himself in the feeling of Richie’s lips, teeth, and tongue.  “You’re so good at that.”  He raises his mouth to Richie’s ear, confessing, “I could probably come just like this.”

Richie bites the base of his neck hard, making him gasp again and definitely leaving a mark.  “It drives me _fucking crazy_ how responsive you are.”

“Make me come in this suit and I’ll literally kill you,” Eddie breathes, smiling, and pulls Richie up for another bruising kiss.

“I’d better get you out of it, then, huh?” Richie smirks, unraveling Eddie’s scarf from around his neck and pushing his coat off of his shoulders.

“Wait,” Eddie says with a smile before leaning up to kiss Richie’s nose.  “I want to see your place first.  Give me a tour.”

Richie lets out a frustrated but playful growl but ultimately gives in, taking Eddie’s coat and hanging it properly.  “What did I tell you about me not being able to say no to you?  You’re lucky you’re cute.”  His eyes rake openly over Eddie’s suit, the way they couldn’t in the office, inspiring another little growl.  He wraps his arms around Eddie from behind and leads him quickly around the two bedroom, which he shares with a roommate who’s conveniently out of town for the weekend.

Even the common spaces, though clearly a joint effort, have Richie’s personality all over them, pieces of film equipment tucked into corners, framed movie posters adorning the walls, a video game console and controllers sprawled across the rug.  There’s no discernable design or style, just a mish-mash of things Richie likes.  The knick knacks scattered across the windowsills in Richie’s bedroom are especially charming.  Eddie instantly feels right at home.

His nose wrinkles at the Axe body wash in the bathroom shower.  

“It’s not mine, I swear,” Richie says, pressing a kiss behind Eddie’s ear to pacify him.

“I don’t know how you live with people; I couldn’t do it.”

“I don’t know how you live alone.”  Richie shudders.  “No pets or anything.”

Eddie turns, nudging his cheek with his nose.  “What, are you afraid someone’s going to break in in the middle of the night and take advantage of you?”

“I’d welcome it, depending on who it was,” Richie says, wiggling his crotch against Eddie’s ass.  Eddie smacks his forearm.  “I dunno.  When Tim isn’t here, it’s so lonely.  I like hearing other people.  I like seeing other people’s stuff around.”

“Even the Axe body wash?”

“Even the Axe body wash.  It’s just nice, knowing someone else is here.”

Eddie narrows his eyes at Richie.  “Is that why you invited me here?  So you wouldn’t be lonely?”

Richie scoffs.  “ _No._ I invited you here so I could ravage you.  You’re the one who keeps foiling my plans.”  He turns Eddie in his arms and gives him a sweet kiss that almost turns his knees to jelly, the sound of their mouths joining, pursing, and separating echoing along the bathroom walls.  “Are you all toured out yet?”

Eddie drapes his arms loosely over Richie’s shoulders, smiling into his mouth.  “Yup.”

Richie moans happily, pulling Eddie back through the bathroom door and in the direction of his bedroom, nearly biting it on the raised threshold on his way inside.  Eddie steadies him with a little laugh.  Richie hisses, something in his neck or shoulder protesting--at least that’s what it looks like from the expression on his face.

“Oh no,” Eddie says.  “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Richie reassures him, one large hand reaching back to rub at the offending muscle.  “Just… occupational hazard of hauling equipment all the time.”  His face twists up as he digs into his shoulder blade.  “Pretty sexy, huh?”

Eddie tsks under his breath.  “Poor baby.”  He cups Richie’s face and brushes a kiss over the corner of his mouth, making him soften immediately.  He reaches up and around, searching for the pain, bracing his other hand on Richie’s opposite shoulder for leverage.  “Can I--?”  His fingers find the tightness immediately, and Richie groans, nearly melting to the floor.  “Does that hurt, or--?”  Richie simply lets out a string of happy gibberish.  Eddie chuckles, then digs his other hand into the top of Richie’s shoulder, his brow furrowing.  “Wow, you’re really tight here, too.”

Richie winces, leaning into Eddie’s touch on both sides.  “I carry all my stress in my back and shoulders.  And, interestingly, my dick, if you’re looking for something else to grab hold of.”

“I was headed in that direction, but you’re no good to me like this.”

“No, no, I’m good to you.”  Richie straightens.  “Fit as a-- _fuck_ \--”  (Eddie digs in a touch too hard, just to prove a point.)  “--fiddle.”  

“Nope,” Eddie says firmly, “I have a better idea.”  He nods at Richie’s bed.  “Lay down on your stomach.”

Richie’s eyes light up.  He quickly shimmies out of his sweater and jeans, and launches himself onto his bed, wiggling into the mattress.  

“Get comfortable,” Eddie says, belatedly, starting on the buttons of his suit jacket.

Richie’s pillowed his head on his knuckles, watching as Eddie disrobes.  “Are you gonna dance for me?”

“No,” Eddie says pointedly, carefully taking off every piece of his suit and hanging each one over the back of Richie’s desk chair.  “But I _am_ going to give you a brain-melting massage.  My first year of college, I studied physical therapy.  Before I found marketing,” he explains.  Once he’s in just his undershirt and boxer briefs, Richie lets out a quiet whistle.  Eddie smirks.  His eyes suddenly light up.  “Oh my God, don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Richie calls after him as he rushes back to the front door, digging in his overnight bag for the little oblong bottle: a chichi body oil he’d splurged on in the hopes of deepening his tan over the summer.  He’d used the same bag for a couple of trips to the Cape with Bev in July and never totally cleaned it out.  

He saunters back through Richie’s bedroom door and brandishes it.

Richie’s full mouth curves into a sly smile.  “And just what are you doing carrying that around?”

“I’m an asshole who was gunning for melanoma this past summer, apparently.”  He climbs onto Richie’s bed, then onto Richie, straddling the backs of his thighs, suddenly feeling pretty powerful and deeply turned on.  He looks his fill at Richie’s long frame, stretched out and already pliant underneath him, totally trusting.  He swallows, lowering his voice and continuing.  “It was probably also partly a rebellion against my mom.  She used to slather me with Banana Boat before I went to the park, even when it was cloudy.  Okay, I’m exaggerating a little,” he admits, squeezing a few drops of the oil into his palm and rubbing his hands together.  “But the beach was off limits.  I love being able to go now.”

Richie smiles softly at the story, his eyes falling shut as Eddie’s hands finally make contact with his skin, moving in firm, confident strokes up and down either side of his spine.  Eddie can feel him sink even more deeply into the bed.  

“Good?” Eddie asks, knowing the answer.

“Nnngh.”  

He leans forward, wasting no time digging into Richie’s shoulders, gently trying to work out those persistent knots under his skin--and bringing his crotch flush with Richie’s ass in a way that leaves them both a little breathy.  

“So,” Richie starts.  “You came with an overnight bag?  Kind of presumptuous, Eds.”

Eddie digs into his shoulder.  “Fuck off.”  He can’t help but wonder, though, if there’s truth underneath Richie’s remark.  They’d only spent one night together, and they’d only spent one night apart since.  The last thing he wants is for Richie to get sick of him.

“I’d want you here all weekend, if I had my way,” Richie admits quietly.  “But I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

Eddie bites his lip, not sure how to respond to something so unabashedly sweet.  He watches his hands glide over Richie’s pale, lean back.  It’s his first time seeing him from this angle, and it’s a little overwhelming.  Richie might look gangly with his clothes on, but undressed it’s clear how strong he is.  His muscles aren’t overly sculpted; they’re functional.  Eddie highly doubts Richie’s the kind of guy who works out on purpose.  He feels too fucking good under his hands.  He’s tempted to say as much.

“I wish I could tan like you,” Richie says, sounding far away.  

“No,” Eddie protests immediately.  “I love your skin.”

“Yeah?”

“ _Yeah._ ”  Eddie spends some time focusing on Richie’s most tender spot, the shoulder blade that had made him wince minutes before, rolling his knuckles gently into it to warm and relax it.  “Remember Friendsgiving?” he murmurs.  “I wasn’t lying when I said you were really pretty.”

He can see Richie blush from where he’s sitting.  “You _were_ drunk, though,” he says.

“Well, you’ve heard the expression  _in vino veritas_ , right?”  Eddie’s hands slide over to the back of Richie’s neck, burrowing underneath his curls to massage his skin.  “Has no one ever told you you’re pretty?”

“Nah,” Richie breathes.  “ _Funny._ Amazing in the sack, of course.”

“ _Amazing_ , huh?”

“Actually, I think _incredible_ was the exact word they used, if we’re splitting hairs.  But I don’t want to brag.”

Eddie leans close, smiling next to Richie’s ear.  “No, that would be wildly out of character, wouldn’t it?”

Richie plays at lifting his head up.  “Don’t make me come back there.”

He huffs out a breathy laugh, continuing his ministrations, the cedarwood scent of the oil filling his nostrils.  His eyes rove over Richie’s profile, his thick, dark eyelashes fanned out against his high cheekbones, his long nose, his full, pink lips slightly parted.  He looks beautiful.  And his breathy little hums of contentment are definitely making Eddie’s body respond, fast.  His hands lighten and slow to a more sensual rhythm.  

Richie lifts an eyebrow, though he keeps his eyes closed.  “This doing it for you?”  He wiggles his ass against Eddie’s crotch, making him inhale sharply.  

“I’m only human--and very gay,” Eddie protests, quickly adding a quiet, “And your ass is really cute.”  It really, really is: all compact and pert under Richie’s briefs (black, today), not all plush like his own.  His hands wander down to just above Richie’s waistband, his thumbs slipping just underneath on their way up and down his back.  

“You lookin’ to pop the trunk?”

Eddie shakes his head.  “Oh my God.”  He lands a smack on one of Richie’s asscheeks.  

“You can, if you want to.”

He doesn’t, though.  Instead, he shifts back so he’s straddling the backs of Richie’s knees, his warm, oily hands sliding up his thighs and slipping under the bottom hem of his briefs, rubbing slow circles.  Richie sighs a breathy little moan that goes straight to his dick.  “This is where I carry most of _my_ tension.  I’m a literal tightass.”

“I coulda told you that,” Richie says, teeth sinking down into his bottom lip as Eddie’s hands creep further in, toward the cleft of his ass.  His hips squirm, and he moans again.  There’s something almost shy in his body language, like he’s holding himself back, a gorgeous flush tinting his pale cheeks.

“Now who’s responsive?” Eddie teases.

There’s a long silence before Richie quietly ventures a question: “Have you ever topped before?”

Eddie’s brow furrows.  He literally has no idea why Richie would be asking.  “No.”  His fingers are slow and purposeful.  “Have you ever--?”

“Bottomed?  Hell yeah,” Richie breathes, as if it’s a major point of pride.  “Lots of times.  I love it.  Doesn’t happen often because I’m so tall, which is stupid, but.  You know.  People make assumptions.  I pretty much always have to ask for it outright.”

Eddie watches his face, curious.  “ _I_ assumed.  Not because you’re tall, but because I always pegged you for…”  He trails off.

“For a filthy bisexual who can give it up the ass but can’t take it?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going to say,” Eddie snarks, digging his fingers in so Richie gives a yelp that’s halfway between pleasure and pain.  He flicks through his memory book of his own past experiences.  “I know about assumptions.  Pretty much every guy I’ve been with couldn’t let go of whatever ideas they had about me when we first started dating, no matter how well they got to know me.”

“Fuck those guys,” Richie says easily.  

Eddie’s hands slip halfway out of Richie’s briefs, his fingers massaging the backs of his hips--another tight spot for Richie, going by his strained breath.  

“I’d let you, you know,” he suddenly says.  “If you wanted to.”

Eddie’s sure his brain goes completely offline for a good hard second.   _Right now?_ he thinks--and almost says.  Richie’s full of fucking surprises, and so is he, apparently.  What Richie’s just offered is yet another thing Eddie’s never pictured himself wanting, but the thought of doing it with Richie, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , it’s too much.  It makes him nervous.  “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice small.  “It wouldn’t feel like a… garden gnome trying to fuck a giraffe?”

“ _No._ ” Richie shakes with laughter.  “I’d love it.”  He turns a little, so he can look right at Eddie.  “And I think you’d be really good at it.”

Richie watches him, smiling softly at the look on his face.  Eddie’s overwhelmed.  To have Richie, who barely knows him in this way, so willing and open to see different sides of him?  There’s something so beautiful about it.

“I don’t know about these other guys you’ve been with,” he says, and it’s clear he means more than just the sex.  “They didn’t know what the hell they were doing.”

Just as Eddie decides he’s absolutely right, Richie turns over completely, so Eddie’s straddling his front.  

Richie’s hands land on his thighs.  He jerks his head.  “C’mere.  My little garden gnome.”

Eddie shoots him a dirty look but lowers himself down all too willingly, their mouths opening slow and wet against each other.  “D’you feel better?” he whispers against Richie’s lips.

Richie rolls his achy shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded, and smiles dreamily.  “Uh huh.  You’ve got the magic touch.”  They kiss until Richie pulls back to yawn.  

“So much for messing me up tonight, huh, old man?”  Eddie laughs at him, then finds himself yawning, too.  “Ah shit.”

“We’re pathetic,” Richie laments, shaking his head.  “I _really_ want to plow you,” he grabs Eddie’s ass pointedly, “but I can’t get up.  You’ve rendered me useless.”

“It’s been an insane week,” Eddie agrees, pillowing his face in the crook of Richie’s neck, the scent of the oil strong there.  

They lay there together for a few minutes, and by the time Richie rustles them both, Eddie’s already half-asleep.  “C’mon,” he says.  “‘S get under the covers.”

He silently stands, allowing Richie to nudge him into his bed, where he snuggles in, watching Richie pull on an old, ratty film festival tee through slitted eyes and absentmindedly wiping some of the oil from his hands onto the ends of his undershirt.  Richie turns off the bedside lamp and quickly slips in next to Eddie, humming happily as he pulls him close so they’re genuinely spooning.  

“You’re warm,” Eddie says.

Richie simply hums behind him, clearly well on his way to sleep.

Before he’s totally gone, though, Eddie chances one last murmur.  “Don’t get up and make breakfast tomorrow.”  Richie’s answering hum sounds more like a question.  “It freaked me out when you were gone,” Eddie explains, too tired to be embarrassed.

He feels Richie smile against the back of his neck.  “I won’t.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt oddly inspired to get this done and posted tonight, so I didn't edit it too much. But enjoy!

Falling asleep just before nine o’clock means Eddie wakes with a jolt around four.  He and Richie have separated in sleep, Richie starfishing over just half the king-size bed, though he’d kept one arm tucked underneath Eddie’s neck, hand resting possessively over his hip, thumb tucked into the waistband of his boxer briefs.  Eddie smirks softly, watching Richie’s face as he carefully slips out from his spot next to him, climbing toward the end of the bed and off so he can go pee.  

He finds his reflection looking well-rested, relaxed, and happy in the mirror as he washes his hands.  He laughs at the  _ Big Lebowski _ screenshot framed above the toilet, captioned, “Not on the rug, man!”  Eddie knows literally nothing about Tim, but he figures that has to be Richie’s doing.  

When he slips back into bed, Richie’s awake, glasses slipped haphazardly onto his face.  He pulls Eddie close the second he’s back under the covers, rolling on top of him.  “Did I wake you?” Eddie whispers.  As a reply, Richie kisses him in this achingly slow, open-mouthed way that makes him want to pass out from bliss or scream in frustration, he can’t decide which.  

“I was dreaming about you,” Richie smiles, then drags his teeth over the line of Eddie’s jaw.

Eddie giggles.  “Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m serious,” Richie purrs, sucking gentle bites down Eddie’s neck, making him arch up into him, his breath shivering out of him.  “I think my body woke me up ‘cause it wanted the real thing.”

Richie feels perfect, warm and sleep-heavy, pressing sweetly against him.

He hooks his ankles behind Richie’s knees.  “You’re so cheesy, Tozier.”

Richie rolls his hips down, making them both inhale.  “I love when you call me that.”

As Richie presses another languid kiss to his mouth, Eddie feels something plastic and cold against his hip.  He looks down: a tube of lube cradled loosely in Richie’s hand.  A thrill courses through the pit of his stomach.  He closes his hand over Richie’s.  “Did you grab that while I was in the bathroom?”

“Maaaaybe.”  Richie lifts their hands, both closed over the little tube, pressing them into the pillow above Eddie’s head.  

Eddie throws his other arm up above his head for good measure, watching as Richie’s eyes go dark and lusty.  Richie’s bed feels huge and luxurious underneath him, and his body and brain are still clawing out from the edges of sleep, so his inhibitions are way, way low.  He feels practically shameless with how much he wants Richie, right now, particularly since they didn’t get the chance to last night.  He cranes his neck up, bites Richie’s earlobe, and whispers an urgent, “Richie, please.”  

Richie’s already reaching down to slip their underwear off.  “Richie, please what?” he teases, his shirt coming off next, thoroughly messing up his hair.  Eddie turns his face into the pillow and whines at the feel of Richie’s hot, hard cock bumping up against his own.  “Say it.”  He hikes one of Eddie’s thighs up high, high on his waist, palming it with one of his big hands.  

Eddie hikes the other thigh up to meet it.  “Want you.”  

“What do you want?” Richie asks, though his fingers are already wet with lube, and he’s reaching down, circling Eddie’s hole.  He edges the tip of a finger inside.  “Say it, shortcake.”

Eddie’s face screws up in mild annoyance even as he gives a breathless little laugh.  His body clearly has other ideas, sinking down onto Richie’s finger, coaxing him inside.  “Don’t call me that.”  He slides one hand down, fingers seeking out Richie’s happy trail and pulling on it, knuckles nudging at Richie’s cock.

Richie ducks his face into Eddie’s neck and keens, his finger sinking deeper inside Eddie’s body of its own accord.  He recovers after a moment, already slipping a second finger in beside the first, finding that perfect little coil inside of him and grazing it.

Eddie throws his head back and lets out a loud, surprised moan.  “ _ Yeah.  More. _ ”

“Say it, honey.”  Richie’s face is as close as it can be, save for when they’re kissing.  His mouth brushes against Eddie’s as he urges him.  “Tell me what you want.”

Eddie swallows, his breath rushing out of him in a little whine.  “Fuck me,” he says, eyes locked on Richie’s, completely brazen, his hips circling down onto Richie’s fingers in brutal little pulses.  “Want you deep.”

He can feel Richie lean over a bit, hand fumbling at his bedside table for another item, which he offers to Eddie’s mouth: an unopened condom.  Eddie slowly tears it open with his teeth, Richie’s eyes burning into his, his back arching as Richie’s fingers slip out of him.  He nuzzles against the side of Richie’s face, loving the scrape of his dark stubble.  It’s only a brief moment before he can feel the blunt head of Richie’s cock breaching him.  He reaches down with both hands, gripping Richie’s ass and practically forcing him inside.  

Richie kisses him where his brows pinch, warm breath stuttering over his nose.  “You okay?  Too much?”

“ _ No, perfect _ .”  Eddie slides his hands up Richie’s back and reaches for the collar of his undershirt, bunched up to hell but still clinging to his torso, tugging.  Richie helps push it up and over his head, letting it fall just above the pillow under Eddie’s head, his eyes dark and heavy as they glance over his naked chest and shoulders.  Eddie buries his hands in Richie’s nape, scratching him playfully as he sinks his teeth into his full bottom lip.  “Come on.”

Richie gives his upper thigh a little smack before hiking it up on his waist again.  He’s smiling softly.  “I’m literally on top of you--and inside of you,” he says, pulling about halfway out and thrusting back in, making Eddie gasp.  “And you still have to be in charge.”  

Eddie feels his face flush.  “Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s cute,” Richie says quickly, thrusting again, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck and murmuring into his ear.  “Cute, cute, cute.”

There’s a joke flickering at the back of Eddie’s brain, something work-related about them being a team and Richie’s  _ input _ being just as valuable, but then Richie’s fucking him nice and slow, and it feels so,  _ so _ good, so good that Eddie makes a helpless noise that would be embarrassing if it weren’t four in the morning.  Eddie gives over and holds on, clutching to Richie’s back and feeling his muscles work.  

Being together like this is overwhelming, Richie staring down at him with those endless eyes, magnified by his glasses, taking care of him.  He feels impossibly close; they’re nearly flush from head to toe (if there weren’t nearly a foot’s height difference between them).  It’s incredibly different from the first time, which was full of jokes and giggles and stops and starts.  This is unrushed, decadent, full of deep, wet kisses, and they’re both silent almost the entire time, totally wrapped up in each other--until Richie buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder and says, “Can I tell you a secret, Eds?”

“Mm?” Eddie moans, blissed out on the delicious simmer of their bodies moving together. 

“I’m kind of crazy about you.”

  
  


Eddie doesn’t leave Richie’s until Sunday morning, citing a semi-weekly brunch date with Bev, which is part of it; the other part is self-preservation.  If Eddie isn’t careful, he’ll be totally consumed by this, consumed by Richie, and he needs to take a fucking breather.  Richie had only pouted a little, giving Eddie a series of sweet kisses as he guided him out the door of his apartment, his perfect suit folded and shoved into his overnight bag and one of Richie’s shirts on his back.  

Bev shakes her head at him as they dig into their identical plates, half eggs benedict and half strawberry rhubarb waffles.  (Their semi-weekly ritual also includes agreeing on two things they want to order and sharing them both.)  “So,” she says, her voice conspiratorial.  “How are things going?”

Eddie makes a noise that has her flinching, waving her fork and knife in the air.  

“Jesus.  That great, huh?”

Eddie reaches gratefully for the second mimosa the waiter brings him, draining half of it.  He buries his face in his hands.  “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.  I really, really like him.”

Bev slaps a hand over her heart, inadvertently smearing some whipped cream on her shirt.  “Honey, that’s great, I’m so--oh shit.”  She drops her fork, collecting the cream on her finger and popping it into her mouth.  “I’m so fucking happy for you.  You have no idea.”

“I’m glad somebody is.  When I’m with him, it’s amazing.  But every second that I’m not, I’m turning every second we  _ were _ together over in my head like some kind of fucking love detective.  I just don’t know what this means to him, if anything.  And I, I’m already--.”  He stops himself.  He can’t say that, not out loud.  He can barely say it in the privacy of his own head.  Eddie lowers his voice, leaning over the tiny table.  “Not to mention the fact that he reports to me.  It’s so inappropriate.  I’m kind of sick to my stomach over it.  This is not sustainable, you know?  Not if we both want to keep our jobs.”  He drains the rest of his mimosa.  “But if Richie only sees this as a… fling…”  He stabs at a big piece of waffle and shoves it into his mouth.  “...then I don’t even need to be thinking about any of this.  It’ll last however long it does, and then it’ll end, and we’ll go on working together and pretend like it never happened.  Until one of us leaves the company.  Or dies.”  

“Have you talked to him about any of this?”

“No.  We pretty much agreed not to.  To just enjoy it for the time being, keep it to ourselves.  Which I’m doing a fantastic fucking job of, obviously.”

“Well, do you get a vibe from him?  About how he feels about you.”

Eddie can’t help smiling a little.  

Bev looks thrilled.  She leans in, shoveling more food into her mouth.  “What?  What what what?”

“The other night, he said,  _ I’m kind of crazy about you. _ ”

“ _ Oh my God _ .”  Bev practically melts into her chair.  

“I should mention: he was inside of me at the time.”  Bev straightens, ready with a response, but Eddie holds a hand up.  “And you know what he’s like; he’s so warm and sweet and affectionate, like, by default, with everyone.  So, you or I saying some of the things he says to me would actually mean something, but with him…”  Eddie throws his hands up.

Bev takes another bite, seemingly to fortify herself, and sighs, wiping her mouth with her napkin.  “Welp.  I think you know what I’m gonna say.”  She fixes Eddie with one of her patented looks.  “Put on your big boy pants, and just ask him verbatim.”  

Eddie winces.  He knows she’s right.  “God damn it.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Ordinary Love by Sade - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WcWHZc8s2I  
> (A notorious jam for making sweet love. Also, check out THAT VIDEO.)

The days leading up to Christmas are surprisingly manageable for Eddie.  He and Richie see each other as much as they possibly can outside of work, and inside of work no one suspects a thing, as far as Eddie can tell.  He realizes, though, that anything that might be giving them away has already been happening well before the night they first kissed: Richie’s long, affectionate looks, the way Eddie can feel his own smile go about a million watts brighter whenever Richie’s nearby.  

By contrast, he does notice Richie start to dim the closer it gets to Christmas, as their colleagues filter out for vacation one by one.  Richie’d mentioned that he doesn’t really talk to his parents anymore, so Eddie wonders if he even has plans for the holidays. He’s a little afraid to ask at this point; the last thing he wants to do is upset Richie.

Eddie’d promised his mother that he’d head to Maine on the twentieth, but true to form, he’s stalling, lingering around the office without the excuse of anything to do until the twenty-second.  He and Richie silently decide to extend their one-on-one that day for the entire afternoon, ordering in lunch and chatting leisurely, Richie pulling from a bag of holiday candy in his lap and then, once that’s empty, raiding the dish on Eddie’s desk.  

Eddie watches him.  “Are you eating your feelings?”  Richie smirks as he unwraps another Dove dark chocolate.  “What’s up?” he asks softly.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Richie murmurs.

Eddie nudges his foot.  “I’m only going to be gone for twelve days.  Nine days, at this point. I was supposed to leave on Wednesday.”

“It’s a long time,” Richie insists.  “How come you’re still here?”

“Just… delaying it, you know?”  He watches Richie nod quietly. He opens and closes his mouth, feeling impulsive.  “You could come with me. To Maine.”

Richie quickly scoffs, shaking his head and waving one of his long arms around, making a real production out of it.  “No, Eds--that’s really sweet, but it’s a huge imposition--”

“It’s really not.  It’s just me and my mom, and I end up doing most of the work, anyway.  I can’t promise you it’ll be fun; in fact, it’ll probably be the exact opposite of fun, but… it’d be really nice to have you there.”

Richie lowers his eyes, biting his lip.  “I do make a good buffer.”

“That’s not what I meant.  I would really like to have you there.”

Richie raises an eyebrow.  “...Would you, now?”

Eddie’s face goes pink as he realizes the particular succession of words he just strung together.  “You’re insufferable.” He corrects himself. “I would like for you to be there. And then you wouldn’t have to miss me.  And you’ll get the added bonus of seeing me regress to the age of ten, which is what happens any time I’m with her.”

Richie considers.  “What would you tell her?”

“Just that I’m your boss--because I can’t lie about that--and that your family’s too far away, and I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“...Are you sure?”

“I should be asking you that.  She’s an actual nightmare.” Eddie shuffles his personal phone to the middle of his desk, positioning it so they can both hear through the tiny speakers.  “Exhibit A.” He pulls up his mom’s latest voicemail and hits play, turning the phone on speaker so Richie can take in every stress-inducing second.

Eddie deflates immediately rehearing the message, and Richie watches with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.  

Richie raises an eyebrow as his mom’s drawling voice gives completely unnecessary advice about rental cars and the best times to drive.  “I’m so turned on. Is she single?”

Eddie kicks him again, turning off the message before it’s finished.  He can’t take it a second time through.

“Welp,” Richie says decisively, clapping his hands together with renewed energy.  “I can’t let you face that alone, can I?”

 

They leave in Richie’s car that night, Eddie’s gratitude far eclipsing his fear over Richie and his mom meeting for the first time.  They’ll both be doing their share of performance (lying) the entire trip, so it’s not as if it’s the real deal, anyway. And Eddie’s default mode with his mom has been to not be himself since he was a teenager, so he’s certainly had enough practice.  

Richie seems at ease--happy, even--to be driving them there together.  Or maybe he’s performing for Eddie to make sure  _ he’s _ at ease.

When they’re within five minutes of the house, he feels his chest tighten.  He slips his inhaler from his pocket and takes a preemptive puff.

Richie’s brow furrows.  “We can turn back around.  Just say the word. We’ll be snuggled on your couch watching Rudolph by midnight.”

Eddie’s tempted.  “No,” he says, resolute.  “I want to have a relationship with her.”  He says that part more for himself than for Richie.

“If at any point it’s too much, just blink three times and say ‘yule log,’ and I’ll have the getaway car ready, okay?”   

“Okay,” Eddie laughs weakly, horribly anxious now that it’s real, now that his childhood home is almost in view.  He shifts in his seat as they turn onto his street. “Oh my God, she’s literally waiting on the porch.”

“That’s so cute.”  Richie smiles.

“You won’t think so in about two minutes,” Eddie says, already reaching for his seatbelt as Richie pulls the car into the driveway.  

Richie looks at his mom, standing there on the porch in a Christmas sweater and jeans, and Eddie’s anxiety kicks up another three notches.  He feels awfully exposed, like Richie’s suddenly privy to every single thing that’s wrong with him. But Richie simply grins, murmurs, “Yule log,” and gets out of the car, approaching her with his hand outstretched and an enthusiastic, “Hi, Mrs. Kaspbrak!” that makes Eddie clamp a hand over his mouth.

Eddie sits and watches through the windshield for a long beat, thinking fiercely that if he weren’t already in love with Richie, he would be now.   

 

It’s late when they get in, which was a little bit by design, so they go straight to bed--after Eddie’s mom spends twenty minutes alone with him in the kitchen laying out an itinerary for the week, which he interrupts with periodic  _ uh huh _ s and  _ okay _ s.  

He tells her that he’ll blow up his air mattress for Richie, but when he slips into his bedroom, Richie’s already laid out on his back in his twin bed, a good portion of his legs hanging off the end of it.  Eddie raises his eyebrows at him as if to say,  _ So? _

Richie whispers as Eddie shuffles to the closet and pulls out the nylon bag with the air mattress.  “She’s certifiably insane.”

“I know.”  He plops the big, deflated monstrosity onto the stretch of floor right next to the bed, plugs it in, and waits for it to fill, the noise providing protective cover for their conversation.

Richie scoots all the way to the side of the bed and props himself up on an elbow.  “I don’t know how she managed to give birth to the most adorable little gingersnap on the face of the earth, but I’m grateful.”

“Please don’t start calling me Gingersnap.”

“I can’t promise that,” Richie says, reaching with his free hand toward where Eddie’s crouched on the floor to play with his hair.  “Gin--”

Eddie covers his mouth.  “What did I just say?” His tone is authoritative but he’s smiling.

“Dammit.”  Richie pries Eddie’s hand from his mouth and presses a wet kiss right to the center of his palm.  “Pour one out for Gingersnap. We hardly knew ye.” He lets his other arm go limp, his head dropping to the mattress, and starts kissing Eddie’s fingertips.  “It was the perfect nickname, Eds: because you’re sweet  _ and _ you’ve got snap.”  He bites a finger.

“Why do I like you?”

“I don’t know.  Why do you?”

It’s a typical Richie response, but Eddie senses that there might be an actual question underneath it.  “I have my reasons.”

“Uh huh,” Richie says, scooting so his torso hangs off the side of the mattress and wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders, his hands slipping under the collar of his shirt.  His lips purse right along that stretch of skin on Eddie’s neck that he knows by now is a true fucking weakness for him. “You mean it’s more than just my dick?”

“Of course it is,” Eddie says, dropping the controller for the air mattress, his eyelids fluttering.  He collects himself, turning to whisper into Richie’s ear. “We  _ can’t _ .  You have to actually sleep on this thing.  My mom knows every creak and shift in this house.”

Richie whines a little but gives in way easier than Eddie expects him to.  “ _ Fine _ .  I can’t fit in this fucking bed anyway,” he says, then promptly falls off of it, landing on the carpet with a hilarious thud.  

“Eddie?!” his mom shouts from her perch on the living room couch downstairs.

Eddie manages to stifle his laughter to shout back: “It’s fine, Ma!  We’re fine!”

 

The next morning, Eddie sleeps as long as he possibly can, waking and turning over to drift off over and over again until the sun is shining brightly through the window and the air mattress is vacant.  He can hear muffled voices coming from downstairs; he can’t make out the words, but he can distinguish his mother’s saccharine drawl from Richie’s quick, boisterous boom. 

He purposely shuffles down the hall as quietly as he can and stands at the top of the stairs, listening to their conversation as it drifts up from the kitchen.  Someone’s making breakfast, from the sound of the plates and pots clinking and clanking, and it’s sure as shit not his mother; she’d given up on that a long time ago, before he hit high school, even.  

“Oh, Eddie’s the  _ best  _ boss, definitely the best I’ve ever had.  Everybody loves him.”

“Oh?  That’s nice.”

His mom sounds nonplussed, but Richie either doesn’t pick up on it or makes the decision to drive through it.  

“It  _ is _ nice.  He’s really smart, really knows his shit.”  A heavy silence, a clatter of cutlery. “Uh, excuse me--sorry--I mean, he’s really smart and... caring.  They’re lucky to have him. He should be running the marketing department. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t one day.”

“Mmm,” his mother replies, clearly wanting the conversation to be over.  

Eddie slips his thumbnail between his teeth, not chewing but contemplating it.  Just twenty-four hours ago, he’d been planning on coming here all alone, and now not only is Richie here, but, whether it’s conscious or not, he’s providing him with a thick wall of protection.

He slowly begins descending the stairs, the scent of his mom’s ubiquitous Glade plug-ins filling his nostrils, a smell he can’t imagine not noticing but that must have become a part of his everyday palate, something hovering in the background all those years he was still living under her roof.  Now in the light of day, having not been here in over a year, other things that should be just as familiar are made new and strange.

His mom’s voice is sharper and brighter in his ears.  “What do  _ you _ do at the company, Richie?”

That’s Eddie’s cue to protect him from her inevitable judgment.  He very nearly jogs around the corner and into the kitchen. “Morning.”  He forces a smile. It’s an impossibly odd image, Richie standing at the stove cooking  _ for his mom _ .  No matter how desperately he’d wanted Richie to feel less alone on Christmas, seeing the reality of it makes him question the decision entirely.

“Sweetie, take it easy; your asthma,” she says, hiding most of her face behind her coffee mug.  

_ It’s not asthma, Ma, we’ve had this conversation _ .  It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back; it’s useless, and not in front of Richie.  He realizes he’d grabbed his inhaler off the nightstand and shoved it into the pocket of his pajama pants, something he only does here in this fucking house.  He clutches it briefly as he takes a seat caddy-corner to her, then pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Actually, Mrs. Kaspbrak, Eddie barely needs his inhaler these days.  He made quite the showing at Field Day over the summer. He can’t play basketball to save his own life, but--”

“ _ Hey _ ,” Eddie says, though it’s a few shades off from his usual bite.  

Richie gestures with his mom’s whisk.  “I was just talking your mom’s ear off about how great of a boss you are.”

“I thought I felt my ears burning.”  He smiles at Richie--a genuine one.

His mother gives him a strange look, like she doesn’t recognize him, which he pointedly ignores.

If they were alone in Eddie’s apartment right now, Richie’d throw back a bit of flirtation or just go right in and attack Eddie’s neck, but instead he keeps his eyes on the stove and asks, “Eddie, how do you like your eggs?”

Eddie, not Eds.   _ He’s good _ , Eddie decides, trying not to openly wince at the taste of his mother’s coffee.  “Uh… scrambled. Thanks, Richie.”

Once he’s done cooking them all breakfast, Richie joins them at the table and dominates the conversation, much to his mother’s chagrin, talking all kinds of shit about why he’s alone on Christmas and what some of his family traditions were when he was a kid.  At least Eddie assumes it’s shit. At one point, Eddie’s mom presses about his parents just a little too much, and Richie looks overwhelmed for the first time since they arrived the night before. Under the table, Eddie hooks his ankle around Richie’s, and Richie’s immediately off and running again.  

By the time they’re done eating, it’s nearly midday, and Richie turns to Eddie with bright eyes.  “Can you take me on a tour of Derry? I need to get my bearings for the week.”

Eddie smiles, thoroughly taken aback again.  “Uh, sure. It won’t take long,” he mutters, standing, gathering everyone’s dirty plates.  “Ma, do you need anything?”

She’s at a loss, but she insists that they take her car instead of Richie’s--and that Eddie text.  Eddie begrudgingly agrees and ushers Richie up to his room to get ready, recognizing that if he’s going to be here for an entire week, he’s going to have to pick and choose his battles wisely.  

As soon as they’re upstairs, Richie grabs Eddie’s face with both hands and presses a silent, heartfelt kiss to his mouth, then gathers him in his arms and holds him tight.  Eddie clutches his back as a thank you instead of saying it outright.

 

They take a quick loop around the downtown area--which is just a block or two long, really--and then Eddie drives them out to the entrance to his favorite part of the woods, what they used to call the Barrens.  It’s an unusually warm day for December, so it’s good for a walk, the air just nippy enough for the two of them to see their breath but not enough for it to be uncomfortable. 

Eddie’s body still knows his favorite path better than his brain does, his legs navigating the steep hillside so well that he’s yards ahead of Richie.

“Hey, I have an awesome idea,” Richie says, his voice laden with mischief.

“What’s that?”

Richie jogs to catch up to him once they’re on horizontal ground again.  He leans down to speak into his ear. “You should fuck me in your childhood bedroom.”

“ _ Richie! _ ”  Eddie smacks his arm hard enough that Richie winces and rubs it.

“Come on!  How fucking poetic would that be?”  Richie loops an arm around his shoulders and they walk together, Eddie allowing it for how deserted the woods are, even as a part of him has been conditioned to dread the public affection.  “I can even call you ‘sir.’”

Eddie tilts his head, pretending to consider.  “Mm, that’s a little too  _ Fifty Shades _ for me.”

“What about ‘boss’?”

“No.”

“What about,” Richie pauses to put on an exaggerated, porny voice, “‘ _ Daddy’ _ ?”

“ _ Fuck no.  Dear God no. _ ”  Richie cackles.  Eddie cuts a glance at him before venturing a question.  “...What position were you thinking? For when we do that.”

Richie takes a deep, shaky breath.  “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.   _ A lot _ a lot.”  He brings his mouth back down right next to Eddie’s ear, his lips brushing the shell of it.  “On my stomach. Or bent over the end of the bed.”

Eddie smirks and turns to talk into Richie’s ear.  “Pretty slutty, huh?”

“ _ Ooh yes. _  You can call me ‘slut’!  Yes.”

“ _ No! _ ” Eddie laughs, slapping a hand over Richie’s mouth and glancing around, making sure they still don’t have any company.  “Not for my first time doing that.”

“Oh, I got it,” Richie purrs.  “You wanna  _ make lurve _ to me?  I’ll put on some Sade.”  He tries getting Eddie to sway with him as he sings.  “ _ This is no ordinary love. _ ”

Eddie elbows him.  “Asshole.” He can feel himself blushing.  “I just want to be sweet to you the first time.  That’s all.”

They walk in silence for a long stretch after that, stopping when they come upon the mouth of the quarry, which is still frozen over, even with how relatively warm it is.  

Eddie wants to grip Richie’s hand, and he curses that part of him that’s still fucking afraid to, even out here in the middle of nowhere.  Especially out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Richie asks.

Eddie looks around, then points off in the distance.  “How I got the shit kicked out of me on that bridge over there in sixth grade.”

“ _ Oh no _ .  Does the, uh, perpetrator still live here?  I’ll fuck a dude up on Christmas, I don’t care.”

“No, he’s in a, uh, facility, last I heard.”  Eddie’s voice is quiet in the winter air. “Has been for a while.”

“Wow.  So, not your average middle school bully.”

“No.  He’s probably a strong number two on the list of things I hated about my childhood.”

“...What’s number one?”

“My dad dying,” Eddie answers immediately.  He’s told Richie the whole story before--what he can remember of it, anyway, since he was only four when it happened.  

Richie’s fingers push through Eddie’s hair where it’s long on top.  “I get why it’s hard to come back. Not just for that, but…” He hesitates.  “You’re not yourself here. It’s like this veil drops over you. You disappear a little bit.  I noticed it the second we got here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.  I still like this version of you, too.”  Richie’s fingers start caressing more than comforting.  “But I know you’re not happy, so I don’t like him as much as the guy I met in Boston.”

“The guy with the ladies’ short-shorts?”

“ _ Yeah _ , that guy.  He’s the best.”

They start walking in earnest again, Eddie leading them unconsciously toward the bridge.  Richie stops right in the middle to check out the underwhelming view. Eddie traces some of the names carved into the wood with his fingertips, recognizing a couple of pairs of initials from the 90s.  

“So, is it weird if I give you your Christmas gift now?”  

Eddie glances up to find Richie reaching into the inside pocket of his coat.  

“I figure we won’t have a ton of time alone this week,” Richie explains, pulling out a small rectangular box wrapped creatively with bits of  _ The Boston Globe _ .  

Eddie’s eyes widen.  He smiles. “But I don’t have yours on me right now!”

“That’s totally okay.”  Richie bounces on his heels.  “I feel inspired, and I really want to give this to you.   _ Right now _ .”

“...Okay.”  Eddie approaches, gingerly accepting the gift from Richie.  As he starts tearing into the newspaper, he can sense that Richie’s actually nervous.  

“I hope you like it.  I asked Marsh for some help.”

“What?”  Bev hadn’t mentioned anything to him.  He tears the top strip away to reveal what’s obviously a jewelry box.  His heart thuds loudly in his chest. “It’s not a watch, is it?” he jokes.  “You’re not trying to force me into early retirement?”

Richie’s biting his bottom lip to shit.  He shakes his head. “Open it.”

Eddie inhales deeply and cracks open the box, revealing a stunning t-chain bracelet.

“If you don’t like it,” Richie says quickly, “it’s no big deal.  You can totally exchange it for something else. I won’t be offended; I promise.”

“ _ Richie _ .”  Eddie stares at it, overwhelmed.  It’s exactly the kind of piece he would have picked out for himself.  

“Bev told me you don’t own much jewelry but that you like rose gold, and I just went from there.”  He scratches the back of his neck. “I thought it was pretty  _ you _ , you know?”

Eddie nods, swallowing, his heart in his fucking throat now.  “It is,” he says quietly. He can’t believe this is what Richie got him for Christmas.  If this isn’t a fucking statement about the nature of their relationship, about how Richie feels about him, then what is?  He knows Bev told him to be an adult and just fucking ask, but things are so perfect right now. He doesn’t want to screw it all up.

“So you like it?  Say something, please, before I throw up all over our shoes.”

“It’s  _ gorgeous _ , Richie.”

Richie exhales with a relieved little noise.  “It better be, if it’s going on your sweet little wrist.  Speaking of, I have no idea if it’s going to fit. I just eyeballed it.”  He reaches for the box, intending to fasten it to said wrist.

“It’s way too much,” Eddie protests.

“No,” Richie says firmly, pulling the bracelet carefully from its box.  “It fits. Trust me.”

Eddie rolls up the sleeve of his coat and extends his wrist out, palm up, recognizing Richie’s words from another conversation of theirs, from before all this happened.  “That sounds familiar.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.  My wooing material is nothing if not original.”  Richie pockets the box and is ultra cautious with the bracelet.  “Don’t make any sudden moves,” he says, partly for Eddie and partly for himself.  “If this falls through the cracks, I might actually cry.”

A laugh erupts from Eddie’s throat.  They both hold their breath as he fastens it to Eddie’s wrist.  It’s a perfect fit. “ _ Jesus _ .  Richie, I--.  I don’t even know what to say.  ‘Thank you’ doesn’t seem like enough.  Also, I can  _ guarantee _ that my gift for you isn’t nearly as nice.”

“I don’t care.  This is what I wanted to get you, so this is what you’re gettin.’  Deal with it.” He turns Eddie’s hand over, watching the way the rose gold glints in the winter sun, contrasting beautifully with Eddie’s complexion.  He presses a kiss to Eddie’s knuckles, and Eddie lets him hold his hand all the way back to the car.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s the day after Christmas that Eddie cracks.  Between his aunts, the food, presents, and watching Richie give an Oscar-worthy performance through it all, there’d been enough distraction to get him through Christmas Eve and Christmas.  But now that it’s just the three of them in the house with no plans for real interaction with other humans until he and Richie leave on New Year’s, everything his mother does is like a flaming hook underneath his skin.

After a full day with her and an interminable dinner in the kitchen, Eddie’s about to head upstairs with Richie when she lays a hand over his.  “Stay with me for a minute, sweetie.”

He has a flash of himself as a child, seven or eight, responding with an immediate, “Yes, Mommy,” at every request.  He grimaces, holding back a seethe, and sits at the table again.

She waits until Richie’s closed Eddie’s bedroom door before she speaks.  “It’s so nice having you here. Do you like being here?”

Eddie has to stop himself from laughing out loud.  He gives her a halfhearted, “Sure,” the coil of anger in his chest glowing orange.  

“I was thinking: one of the top insurance companies in the country is opening a satellite office in Derry.”

_ Why? _ Eddie wants to interject but doesn’t.

“I looked on their web site, and they’re building their whole marketing team from scratch.  Why don’t you send them your resume? It’d be so nice to have you closer.”

_ No _ , he wants to scream.   _ Not if you held a gun to my fucking head.   _ “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Ma.  I’m really happy where I am--and my boss says I’m probably due for another promotion by June, which is amazing.  It’s a really great company.”

She frowns.  She doesn’t even congratulate him.  “Well, I told your uncle to put in a good word; he works with that insurance company quite a bit.  It couldn’t hurt.”

“Are you f--.”  His hands clench up into fists on top of his thighs.  He keeps his voice as level as he possibly can. “Seriously, Ma?  We’ve talked about you doing stuff like this. I’m not okay with it.  If I want to make a move, I’ll make it myself. Please stop doing it for me.”  

“...Don’t you like being here?”  She sounds hurt, though she’s probably laying it on a little thick to guilt him.

As Eddie considers a reply, his therapist’s voice echoes in his head:  _ You are not responsible for her feelings. _

“I just said I’m really happy where I am.  Don’t you want me to be happy?” He watches her closely.  

She says nothing.

“ _ Mom. _ ”  He speaks slowly. __ “I’m your son.  Your only child.  If you love me like you say you do, don’t you want me to be happy?”

Nothing.

He gets up with a start, his chair scraping on the linoleum, and is upstairs like a shot.  He throws his bedroom door open and slams it shut, cupping his hands over his mouth and breathing into them.  

“...Eds--”

He turns around, facing Richie, clutching the outline of his inhaler in his pocket but finding he doesn’t need it.  “Yule log.”

Richie immediately starts packing, not even stopping to ask if he’s sure.  They make quick work of it, Richie sensing Eddie’s urgency to get the fuck out of the house.  When they’re done, they lug the bags downstairs and drop them by the front door. Eddie’s mom’s in the hall.  She looks upset but not surprised.

Richie leans toward her.  “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Kaspbrak.”  He pulls the bags out with him to load up the car, closing the front door behind him.

Eddie pulls his coat on and stuffs his hands in his pockets, fixing her with a hard look.  “I’m your son, but I’m an adult. I have my own life, and you can’t make me stay here. I want us to have a relationship, but if you keep putting your head in the fucking sand pretending I’m not who I actually say that I am, then we’re not going to have one.”

She wrings her hands, looking not unlike she did the day he told her he was moving to Boston.

“You don’t have to love me for who I’ve become, but you have to accept me.”  He waits for a reply, and when one doesn’t come, he eases the front door open.  “I’ll text you when I get home.”

It isn’t until they’re on the highway that it hits Eddie what he’s done.  His eyes fill with tears. “ _ Shit _ ,” he says, wiping them away, but fresh ones crop up.  

Richie pulls the car over onto the shoulder and puts a hand on his bicep, watching him with kind, patient eyes.  Eddie doesn’t know what to say.  _ I hate her.  I miss my dad.  Why doesn’t she love me?  I hate her so much.  _ He gives in, pushing his face into his hands and sobbing.  Richie pulls him into his arms, holding him tighter than he ever has.    

 

Eddie’s still obviously deflated after they get home, so Richie gives him some needed space, reassuring him he’ll be back the second Eddie asks.  Eddie promptly books an extra therapy session for right after the new year and throws himself into work as a distraction--and it  _ is _ distracting.  He finds an alarming e-mail waiting for him in his inbox from the head of marketing, cc’ing Cara.  The subject reads  _ When you’re back… _ , the e-mail itself asking them both to set up a meeting for the three of them to discuss “restructuring.”  

He’s instantly nauseous.   _ Do they know?  How? _

Since Cara and their boss are already back in the office, he decides to head back in a few days early, in the spirit of ripping the band-aid off.  He reassures himself that if he and Richie were going to be the topic of conversation, his boss probably wouldn’t have included Cara in the meeting.  At least he hopes she wouldn’t. Then again, as she’d so fucking eloquently put it, the company is nothing if not unorthodox.

_ Fuck. _

Eddie prepares himself for the worst case scenario as he waits in line at Starbucks: he and Richie being fired, him being blackballed from working in marketing ever again, all of his hard-earned references at the company going to shit.  He can always wait tables like he did in college. Maybe some high-end gay-owned restaurant’ll think he’s cute and take pity on him.

Richie’ll bounce back.  He’ll probably cut his losses and go back to freelancing.  

The meeting is at 10, so at least he won’t have to spend the entire day agonizing over it.  Eddie hasn’t told Richie about it, since he figures there’s zero point in forcing him to join him in freaking the fuck out, especially if it turns out to be nothing involving either of them.

As soon as his boss closes the door behind them, she says, “I wanted to talk to you both about Richie.”

Eddie’s heart leaps into his fucking throat.  He can’t do this.

“When we first brought him on full-time,” she continues, sitting behind her desk, “it made sense to have him report to the two of you, since we didn’t really have a dedicated video team to begin with.”

Eddie braces himself, ready to plead ignorance, fully prepared to grovel for his job.

“But I think we can all agree that we could really use a full-time, dedicated video team.”  

Cara’s brow furrows.  Eddie’s breath comes back into his lungs.  

“Absolutely,” he pipes up.

“Sure,” Cara says.

“Okay.  So if we were to do that, not only does our current reporting structure no longer make sense, but I see no reason why Richie shouldn’t be heading up that team.  He’s more than proven himself worthy, right? Eddie, you’ve done nothing but sing his praises over the last few months, especially where his leadership qualities are concerned.  Do you see him being able to handle a team of his own?”

Eddie sputters, feeling like a goddamn idiot.  Of all the scenarios he envisioned, he can’t believe this wasn’t one of them.  “Of  _ course _ ; he’s amazing with the interns--and, and with everyone, really.  He’s super supportive and he’s great at explaining things. I mean, I honestly don’t see how this would change the way that he and I work together; I already see him as a partner.”

Cara readily agrees, and they spend the next twenty minutes deciding how and when to communicate this news to the team--if Richie accepts the promotion, of course.

As the two of them exit their boss’ office, Eddie still in a bit of shock from the news, Cara smiles at his wrist.  “Is that bracelet new? It’s  _ beautiful _ .”

Eddie stutters, unsure of how to reply.  He hadn’t even thought about having to explain it to anyone.  “Yeah, it was a Christmas gift.”

 

He spends the remaining days of vacation in the office trying to wrap his anxious mind around what this promotion means for he and Richie--and avoiding Richie’s texts.  Does this mean they can be open about their relationship? Are they even in a fucking relationship? Eddie isn’t sure he’s ready to have that conversation. He isn’t even sure he’s ready to be in a relationship.  It’s been so long, and historically, he hasn’t been the best at them. Is he ready to hand his heart over to Richie, to worry about him, to grapple with his own jealousy every time he sees him so much as look at someone else?  

_ Maybe I’ve grown _ , he thinks hopefully.   _ Maybe I’m not the same insecure moron I was in my early twenties. _

What if they break up and have to keep on working together through it all?  What if he has to watch Richie date someone else?

_ Okay, maybe I haven’t grown. _

Bev was right, he thinks ruefully.  He has been using work as an excuse to keep Richie at arm’s length.  

He pushes away from his desk and grabs his coat off its hook, desperate for air.  As he shrugs his coat over his shoulders, a tall figure appears in front of his office and raps a jaunty beat on the door.  

“Richie.”

“Hey, Boss.”  Richie ventures a small smile.  “Are you in a rush?”

Eddie stops, letting his coat hang open, noticing the bags under Richie’s eyes.  “No. No. Come in.” Richie shuffles in, and Eddie closes the door behind him. “I thought you weren’t coming back in until--”

Richie glances through the little window panel next to the door, then nudges Eddie up against a stretch of wall where he’s sure they’ll be concealed, kissing him softly.  “I’m sorry; I know I shouldn’t do that here. But it’s so good to see your face; I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m okay,” Eddie says, even though his brain’s a fucking jumble.

“Okay.”  He holds Eddie’s hands between them, playing with his fingers.  “I didn’t hear from you, so--”

“I know, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.  I know what happened over Christmas was intense.”

_ Not to mention all that’s happened  _ since _ Christmas. _

“Eds, I--” Richie starts, his voice startlingly intimate for where they are.  “Shit. I know we said we wouldn’t talk about… what we are, and I’ll probably regret the fuck out of this,” he laughs, “but you going radio silent on me just made me question everything that’s been happening between us.  And you’re my boss on top of it. You have all the power here.”

“No, I don’t,” Eddie says softly.

“ _ Yeah _ , you do.”  His voice lowers to just above a whisper.  “I’ve barely been able to think about anything else since this started.  Tim makes fun of me constantly. I walk around the apartment whistling like a fucking cartoon character.”

Eddie can feel himself blushing.  “You  _ are _ a cartoon character,” he shoots back.

“How do you feel about me?  Don’t dick me around. I need the truth.”

Eddie’s throat threatens to close.  He hadn’t expected Richie to be so blunt about it.  Then again, why  _ hadn’t _ he expected that?  “We’ve barely known each other four months,” he says, more for himself than for Richie.

“Four months that we’ve spent basically attached at the fucking hip.”  Richie’s forehead furrows. He’s started to exhibit some of that worry he’d mentioned when he first came in.  “Just say it, Eds. Whatever it is, the world isn’t going to explode.” He watches Eddie’s face intensely. “You know how I have a thing for unattainable people.  Sometimes I think you’re just another someone I can’t really have, but other times I can swear we’re on the exact same page, and you feel everything that I feel. I think I know, I can see it in your eyes, but please just say it.”

“I’m in love with you,” Eddie says finally, confirming it, smiling at how good it sounds, how good it feels to say it.  “I have been for a while.”

“Oh my God,” Richie breathes, right on the heels of Eddie’s last word.  “ _ You little shithead _ .  Way to put me out of my misery.”  He cups his face with both hands and gives him a fierce kiss that makes him laugh.  “I’m in love with you, too, Kaspbrak. Really, really,  _ really _ in love.”  

“I’m sorry for making you doubt me,” Eddie says, embarrassed, wrapping his fingers around Richie’s hands and nudging their foreheads together.  He shrugs. “I have issues. I’m not going to pretend I don’t. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.  I don’t care. You think  _ you’ve _ got issues?  Strap yourself in, sweetheart.  I just do a way better job of hiding mine.”  Richie gives him a toothy smile. “So, is this it?  Are we a thing?”

“We’re a thing,” Eddie nods.

Richie plays an elaborate drumbeat on the wall next to Eddie’s head in celebration.  

“Stop it, weirdo,” Eddie says fondly, grabbing his wrists.  “I have something else to tell you.”

“Oh fuck.”  Richie turns to him with wide eyes.  “You’re terminally ill? You’re leaving the country?  What disaster have you cooked up to derail my hard-won happiness?”

“ _ Oh my God _ ,  _ stop _ .”  Eddie shakes Richie by the shoulders.  He whispers. “This is very hush-hush, but you’re getting promoted.  You’re going to have your own video team.”

Richie’s jaw drops.  He actually looks too shocked to be excited.  “Seriously? Already? That’s crazy.”

“I know, but things move fast here.  That’s part of why I haven’t been answering your texts; it’s been a lot to process.  They’re probably waiting until after the new year to tell you, so just act surprised, okay?”

“Aye aye, cap’n.”  Richie salutes him.  “Can you help me practice my surprised face?  It’s eerily similar to my o-face.” Richie closes his eyes and feigns a silent orgasm.

Eddie slaps a hand over his own eyes.  “Why did I just tell you I’m in love with you?”

“Wait,” Richie says, his brain finally catching up.  “Does this mean you’re not going to be my boss anymore?”

Eddie gives him another elaborate shrug.  “That’s exactly what it means. We’ll be on the same level.”  

“Sooooooo…”

“Yeah, exactly.”  Eddie checks again to make sure no one can see them.  “I mean… it still would be sort of frowned upon, I think, because we work together so much, but it doesn’t pose nearly as much of a problem as me being your boss does.”

“So we could tell them if we wanted to.”

“Probably.  But if we do, we should definitely wait a while after you’re promoted.  And lie about when we started… you know.”

“Fucking each other’s brains out, gotcha,” Richie nods.  He takes a deep breath and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking smug.  “Welp. Can I treat you to a celebratory undercover lover lunch? Two pieces of amazing news in one day; I feel like I’m batting a thousand.”

“Yeah.  As long as you don’t use anymore sports analogies.  We both know you’re a useless half-gay who doesn’t even know what ‘batting a thousand’ means.”

“Neither do you,” Richie says with a smile that’s pure flirtation.

“You got me there, Tozier,” Eddie retorts, smirking back.

Richie mouths  _ I love you _ as Eddie buttons up his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done! I am full of excitement and sadness to see this fic come to its conclusion.
> 
> Also, just a note on this chapter: I feel like a lot happens in it, and I hope it doesn't feel super rushed. Sometimes life is like that, you know?
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the last one!
> 
> PS. Feel free to bug me on the tumblr: @stellarbisexual


	18. Friendsgiving 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catch me on the tumblr: @stellarbisexual
> 
> See you on the other side! Enjoy!

They have it down to a science now, Eddie and Bev: turkey in the oven before anything else, table set, wine uncorked, biscuits (premade by Pillsbury) on a baking sheet ready to be popped in the oven after everyone’s done with appetizers.

There are a couple of marked changes since last year.  Eddie’s managed to give himself the permission to actually take more than just Thanksgiving Day off, so the apartment looks particularly beautiful, fairy lights along the window frames in the living room and an assortment of unnecessary centerpieces from Pier One.  They’ve got a new addition to the guest list in Bev’s new girlfriend Amy, a pilot who balances her out with her quiet, observant nature and unexpectedly wry sense of humor.

A perpetual bachelorette by her own description, Bev had actually been inspired to get “wifed up” (her words) by Richie moving in with Eddie in early October.  

The decision to live together hadn’t been easy for Eddie, someone who’s never lived with anyone in his adult life and only his mother before that.  But the more time Richie’d spent at his place, the more he’d gotten used to the idea--and actually started missing him the nights that he stayed at his and Tim’s place.  Eddie’d had a small conniption worrying about making sure the apartment would be in order for the holidays, but Richie turned out to not have a ton of stuff, apart from his video equipment.  They’d ditched Eddie’s full size bed since Richie’s was far bigger and way nicer. (“Enough to accommodate a giant,” Richie’d said, gesturing grandly to himself as the movers wrestled it into the elevator of Eddie’s building.)

Richie, who’s been “helping” with the cooking mostly by keeping Eddie and Bev entertained, doesn’t change out of his sweats until six minutes before everyone’s set to arrive, which gives Eddie another small conniption, until Richie emerges from the bedroom--their bedroom--wearing a steel blue sweater (a birthday gift from Eddie) and a new pair of thick black-rimmed glasses.  

Eddie glances up from his hands, which he’s wiping on a tea towel, and makes an undignified noise way more suited to Richie than himself.  Living with him is definitely rubbing off. “Woooooow.”

“Yeah?”  Richie makes a show of digging his toe into the hardwood floor, playing at shy, something he loves to do whenever Eddie compliments him.  Eddie suspects that, like most of Richie’s little performances, there’s more truth to it than he lets on.

“ _ Yeah. _ ”  Eddie abandons the towel on the kitchen counter and strides over, extending his arms over Richie’s shoulders and kissing him nice and slow.  

Richie smiles, hands firm and possessive at his waist.  “I’m gonna wear this every day.”

“I think it might dilute the effect.”  Eddie stands on his tiptoes, lightly biting his nose.

“I dunno,” Richie sings, tilting his head in contemplation.  “You wear those grey pajama shorts almost every night, and they still drive me pretty bananas.”  His hands slide down to grip just under Eddie’s ass over his nice jeans.

Eddie’s hands drift into Richie’s hair.  “Eyes on the thighs?”

His boyfriend gasps in delight.  “Good one. Speaking of bananas…”  He presses himself pointedly into Eddie, earning a long-suffering laugh and a half-hearted push.  Richie manages to pull him even closer, nearly dipping him as he burrows into the side of his neck.  

“These potatoes aren’t gonna mash themselves, dickheads.”  Bev’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “Stop making out.”

After everyone arrives and they’re all spread out across the living room with drinks, their friends take in the space, marking the differences from last year: Richie’s knick knacks littered along the windowsills, his game consoles tucked into the media unit, a beautiful new bookshelf full of Richie’s well-loved paperbacks and big hardcover photography collections (probably his biggest moving expense, even including the bed).  

Eddie feels a little bashful when Mike points out the framed collection of photos Richie took of him on the Cape over the summer.  Eddie’d felt a little weird about putting them up, protesting, “Who wants to look at my face when they come over? That’s like blowing up a glamour shot of myself and hanging it over the bed.”  “That’s definitely not the same thing,” Richie’d reassured him. “Besides, they’re pictures  _ I _ took of you; we’re showcasing my undeniable talent just as much as we’re showcasing your gorgeous face.  Also, I need something to stare longingly at when you’re at work.”

The fallout from telling their boss that they were seeing each other had been totally anticlimactic--in fact, most of their colleagues had suspected something for weeks.  But Richie’d ultimately decided to go back to freelancing anyway, feeling that the whole dynamic of working so closely with one’s boyfriend was too weird. “I know this expression’s going to make you cringe, but don’t shit where you eat,” he’d explained privately to Eddie.  “Plus, I prefer to be way more of a tumbleweed in my professional life, Eds, trust me.”

He’d picked up a gig at a local college teaching filmmaking part-time, which he’s incredible at and fucking loves and gives him more free time to make movies than being a full-timer ever did.  And since Eddie’d gotten promoted right on schedule in the spring, he makes more than enough for them to be comfortable when the freelancing side is slow.

They’re still in the honeymoon period, but it’s not perfect--no relationship is.  Richie’s often insecure about whether or not he’s doing a good enough job as Eddie’s boyfriend and Eddie’s insecure about, well, fucking everything, still, but they’re getting way better at communicating and working through it together.  You have to when you live together.

One of Eddie’s biggest insecurities was that Richie would get tired of him or lose some of the spark of that initial attraction, but if anything, it’s been the opposite; the sex is still  _ crazy _ good and getting better the more they get to know each other in that way.  Some nights, usually when Richie’s had a string of long shoot days in a row, Eddie’s the insatiable one, and Richie indulges him even as he fights the inevitable fatigue.

Eddie’ll bring him coffee in bed the next morning, Richie on his stomach (a telltale sign that he’s bone tired) and moaning half-asleep into the pillow.  He’ll set the mug down on the bedside table, climb onto Richie’s back, and start rubbing his shoulders. “Honey, if you’re tired, don’t let me ravage you the next time.”

“I can’t say no to you,” Richie says, totally muffled.  “Especially when you call me  _ honey _ in that voice.”

The seating arrangements for dinner have to be changed a little with the extra chair, Richie and Eddie right next to each other rather than caddy-corner like last year.  It’s a dangerous setup, much of Eddie’s food initially ending up in his lap or on the table with Richie disrupting him with bits of somewhat aggressive affection.

Eddie turns sideways in his chair, finally settling back into Richie’s arms after he takes his last bite.  

Amy smiles at them from across the table.  “How did you two meet?”

“I love this story,” Ben says fondly as he tears open another biscuit, cheeks beer-warm and glowing in the low light.  

“Please don’t make me relive this,” Bev says, leaning into Amy’s shoulder.  

“Ooh, I’ll start at the very beginning!” Richie declares, prompting Stan to swipe a hand over his face.  “‘Twas a fine summer day in Boston, Massachusetts--”

“We worked together,” Eddie cuts him off, patting his forearms where they’re looped around his chest.  

“You’re no fun,” Mike says, lifting his third glass of wine to his mouth.  He turns to Amy. “That’s simplifying it way too much. Richie started as a freelancer and flirted  _ shamelessly _ \--”

“Inappropriately,” Stan chimes in.

“ _ Totally inappropriately _ ,” Bill and Ben say.

“--for  _ weeks _ until Richie became permanent,” Mike finishes.  “But on Richie’s first day, the head of marketing announces that he’ll be reporting to none other than…”  He gestures at Eddie.

“ _ Oh no _ ,” Amy says.

“‘Oh no’ is right.”  Bev plays with her watch, looking utterly cozy.  “Worst four months of my life leading up to you finally making a move.”

“Hey!” Eddie protests.

“ _ Aww _ ,” Richie pouts, squeezing Eddie.  “I miss being your undercover mans.”

“...My undercover what now?” Eddie giggles.

“Your hot little piece of office ass.  Your secretary, sir,” Richie stage whispers, pinching Eddie’s side and making him yelp.

Eddie doles out a playful smack to the back of his hand.  “ _ Anyway. _ ”

“We all knew this is where they were headed,” Bev explains sagely.

“No you didn’t!”  Eddie throws a biscuit at her.

Bev sits up in her seat, getting revved up.  “Oh  _ please _ .  The way you’d stare longingly across the hall whenever he was shooting something in Stan’s office.”

“I considered putting up shades,” Stan says through a mouthful of stuffing.

Eddie gives him an amused smile.  “Well, you  _ are _ an expert in shade.”

Stan throws a biscuit at Eddie.

“Wait!”  Richie starts combing his fingers through Eddie’s hair, which has gone all long and wavy again.  “I want to hear more about this intense pining period you had for me.”

“This is where I draw the line,” Stan says, turning to Amy.  “Onto other topics.”

Eddie settles back into Richie again, the conversation around them a warm, comfortable buzz.  Richie sighs into Eddie’s ear, pulling him even closer so that his back is flush with Richie’s front.  “What?” Eddie asks.

“You look so good.  I kinda wanna kick everybody out.”

“And miss out on the rest of this meal we so lovingly made?  Oh, excuse me, that Bev and I so lovingly made.”

“I mashed so many potatoes.”  Richie sounds scandalized.

“You mashed a single potato.  Maybe a potato and a half.”

Richie presses a soft kiss just behind Eddie’s ear.  “I got distracted. Your face gets all scrunchy and your eyebrows get all intense when you’re mashing.  It’s monumentally cute.”

They sit like that for a minute or two, just watching and listening to their friends, grabbing bits and pieces of conversation as they float up from all sides of the table.  

Richie lowers his mouth to Eddie’s ear and sings quietly.  “ _ I feel the night explode when we’re together. _ ”

Eddie blushes.  “You’re an idiot.”  He turns back, trailing a bunch of kisses over Richie’s left cheek, then down and around his ear, Richie tightening his arms around him all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for giving this story all the incredibly generous love you've given it over the last six (!!) months (holy shit I took a really long time to write this). As many of you have expressed to me over the last few weeks, I'm also super fucking sad to see it end--but these two version of Richie & Eddie have weaseled their way into my heart, and I'm certain I'll be writing one-shots from this universe in the future.
> 
> Speaking of, I wasn't able to fit Eddie topping Richie into this version of the story, as there just wasn't space for it the way that I wanted to tell it, but that's definitely something I have planned for a one-shot.
> 
> NGL, I have lowkey anxiety about anything else I write in the future since this story's been so popular and loved, so, uh, just know that. XD
> 
> THANK YOU, and I hope you enjoyed this happy, established Reddie epilogue of sorts. It's how I'd always planned on ending this story. :)


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